


Don't Leave Me to Slow Dance to Death

by MotherOfCups



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternative Perspective, CW: Allusions to disordered eating, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Portia deserves to be angsty sometimes, Save Portia, She can't always be sunshine and rainbows and adventure, Smut, Unprocessed Trauma, Unrequited Love, Whoops it got sexual for a moment, cw: body dysmorphia, girl's got BAGGAGE, let Portia be complex, portia appreciation week, the iris oracle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23630404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherOfCups/pseuds/MotherOfCups
Summary: Portia was always fond of ghost stories and mysteries, but dancing with her own ghosts and unraveling her own mysteries isn't quite what she expected.
Relationships: Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana), Apprentice/Julian Devorak, Portia Devorak/Nadia
Comments: 22
Kudos: 32





	1. The Star

**Author's Note:**

> This shorty sequence is set against the backdrop of [The Iris Oracle](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491047) (particularly, the events of [this chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712947/chapters/49550111)). You do not have to read the chapter to enjoy it here through Portia's lens, but I certainly won't stop you should you wish to explore. :) 
> 
> Happy reading, and #SavePortia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dodie - 6/10**
> 
> _CW: body dysmorphia, disordered eating behaviors_

Hardly sunrise, the horizon barely the watercolor wash of pre-dawn gray, and Portia was already awake. She’d drank the one cup of coffee she allowed herself, black and bitter, and she’d eaten – a quarter of a sticky-croissant from yesterday’s batch from the kitchens, already a little stale, but she resisted the urge to soften it with a smear from the butter on her tiny kitchen counter, saved for her days off, where she baked and baked and baked, lavender buns, earl grey cake, the sea salt cookies of her childhood. None of them still quite right, even in the tiny tastes she allowed herself, the rest divvied amongst her friends and favorites on the palace staff. 

She’d stood in front of the tiny, time-speckled mirror in her tiny washroom, tying back the riot of her red-red curls as best as she could. She tried to ignore the same things that always caught her eye – the unpleasant turn of her nose; her thin, stretched lips, so often smiling, now pouting; the blackheads on her forehead, her chin; the pale stretchmarks that striped her rounded shoulders, her soft belly, her fleshy hips, her breasts, heavy but somehow small. She turned away from the mirror as she dressed, so she didn’t have to see the flexing of the rolls that choked her waist as she shrugged into her freshly-laundered uniform, smelling softly of geraniums.

It was still pre-dawn when she gave Pepi a kiss on her velvet nose and slipped out of the cottage, weaving expertly through the hedges to the palace. Most of the windows were still dark – the palace was largely empty, save for the Consul and the occasional Courtier, and, of course, the Countess (Portia swallowed heavily, her heart pounding in her chest) – but the lights in the kitchen and the laundries in the basement were blazing. Paloma, the pâtissier, would have already been working for an hour or two, and the head laundress, Rosmerta, well… Portia still wasn’t sure when she or her staff slept. 

She took a quick turn away from the palace, into a largely unused portion of the hedge maze, revealing a heavy wooden trapdoor. She threw it open – it was well oiled, hardly a squeak, as Portia slipped through, down and down the ancient wooden stairs, then the simple dirt-packed tunnel that lead under the palace, straight to a trapdoor that opened into the fragrant, cool larder, stuffed to the brim with every root vegetable and exotic pickle and sweet preserve that Portia could name.

The kitchen was already bustling when Portia shouldered open the heavy doors from the larder; Rema, the pretty, dark-eyed sommelier, gave Portia a knowing wink as she looked up from the table where she, Paloma, and Hestion were planning the day’s menu. “I wish we’d had more notice.” Hestion muttered, a little darkly. “We could have prepared better for her arrival.”

“If I remember correctly, she likes pasta… but we don’t have semoline flour, we’ll have to order it.” Paloma murmured. “But she loved that chocolate custard Madhur used to make, that infusion of Rostam wine, the one with the barberry notes. Do we still have any in stock, Rema?” 

“Oh, I’m sure. She was the only person who drank it, when she wasn’t drowning in firewater.” Rema said with a sad smile, throwing an affectionate arm around Portia, who cocked one ginger brow curiously. “She loved those pomegranate scones that you used to make, too, Paloma. Maybe breakfast tomorrow?” 

Paloma shook her head. “We’re fresh out of pomegranates. Those damn bloodhounds.” Portia barely processed that the pâtissier was pressing something into her hands, a sandwich of egg, cheese, and tomato jam between a freshly baked biscuit, muttering something softly, fondly, _girl’s probably hardly eaten anything._

“I could grab some in the market today.” Portia offered, her curiosity getting the better of her as she glanced over the menu – a luxurious allium soup, roasted root vegetable salad, braised lamb with a pomegranate molasses and red wine reduction. “I’m already running some of Milady’s errands. But who’s all of this for?” 

Hestion laughed, his soft, affectionate huff, already braiding back his long ink-black hair, dark brows furrowed in concentration. “That’s right, sweet pea, you wouldn’t remember. It was before you joined the staff.” 

Paloma smiled kindly, a weathered hand, covered even now in flour, gently squeezing Portia’s shoulder. “Her name is Iris. Iris Keshet. A magician. She was Milady’s Fool long ago, before...” Her voice trailed off, her eyes far away, a little misty. 

Rema brushed a long tendril of wavy blonde hair away from her face. “Iris was Milady’s favorite. They were inseparable before… well.” The sommelier cleared her throat carefully. “Milady tracked her down and extended her an invitation to stay in the palace. She could use another friendly face around, don’t you think?” 

Before Portia could respond, there was a soft tsking at her shoulder, the senior kitchen staff falling strangely silent – the Chamberlain, practically vibrating with impatience, their royal-blue uniform impeccable. “Miss Portia. A word?” 

With a shrug to her companions, Portia followed, even as her heart raced in her chest. Iris Keshet…? Why had she never – 

The Chamberlain wheeled around suddenly – they were back in the larder, the door slammed quietly shut behind them. They pressed a leather-bound dossier into Portia’s hands. “It seems the news has already reached you. I’m sorry you first heard of this through palace gossip.” 

Brows furrowed, Portia opened the dossier. Meticulous notes, if a little garbled – she immediately recognized Ludovico’s handwriting, the scent of ale and juniper heady on the paper – tracking movements, dating back almost two weeks. A shop called the Indigo Child, the Market, the Rowdy Raven, the Southern Forest. Palace records from four years ago – duties and responsibilities, schedules, diet, allergies, preferences. Gossip, known relations – Portia’s eyes widened at one name that jumped out immediately – _Julian Nikolyavitch Devorak (romantic partner)_. 

And then… a graphite sketch, perhaps from a portrait sitting. Blonde hair halfway down her back, slightly wavy, half up, half down. Her neck long as she looked over her shoulder, her cheekbones high, round, shocking. Dark eyes, dark lashes, dark brows, full lips parted almost as if in surprise. Beauty marks on her chin, under her eye. Portia felt a strange sinking in her gut, even as she swallowed back the familiar lump in her throat. She was gorgeous. 

“Milady asked the Consul and his men to track her down.” The Chamberlain explained. “She was presented with the dossier last night, recommendations from guard. It seems she went out in the middle of the night to find her. She extended her an invitation then; I got word first thing this morning. The kitchens had already been notified. The seamstresses have been up all night.” They huffed, a sound that could be mistaken for quiet laughter. “Milady ordered an entire wardrobe curated for her.” 

Portia snapped the dossier closed, the lump in her throat growing, growing, sour, sour. “I’ll notify the rest of Milady’s household. We’ll need rooms prepared, linens. The baths should be cleaned, it’s been a dog’s age since we’ve had a guest in that wing.” 

“Already done.” The Chamberlain’s smile was warm. “Milady left very special instructions for you, Miss Portia. You’re to escort Miss Iris to the palace.” 

Portia hummed softly, her mind buzzing; the chamberlain laid a wizened hand on the handmaiden’s shoulder. “She trusts you very much, Miss Portia. The Countess can be… willful… when she chooses. This was a surprise for all of us.” 

Portia smiled brightly, even though she knew her eyes didn’t mirror it. “Thank you, Yasu.” The Chamberlain patted her shoulder, tucking the dossier under their arm.

“Your carriage is waiting; Milady requested Miss Iris be back in time to bathe and dress before dinner. I’ll have a copy of this delivered to your quarters. Oh –” They quickly unfurled the sketch from the dossier. “Take this. So you can locate her. Start at her shop, the Indigo Child.” Their eyes, bright and knowing despite their age, flitted over Portia once, with something that Portia had long learned was approval, approval and fondness. “And eat that breakfast Paloma made you, before it gets cold. Arcana knows you barely eat as it is.”

They parted, the Chamberlain’s quick, feverish steps on the shale echoing like thunderclaps in Portia’s ears as she hustled to the stables. She tried to eat, one bite, two, of her breakfast, but ended up tossing it in the garbage, the sour lump aching, aching in her throat.


	2. The Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tennis - Runner**
> 
> _CW: no content warnings_

The Indigo Child was empty when Portia reached it, already almost midmorning. The Market district was far too crowded at this point for her carriage – a strangely opulent thing, a gift from the Countess that Portia still felt a little uneasy in, painted a lovely shade of yellow the same color as the mottled palomino mares that pulled it, the woods of Vesuvia’s forests inlaid in the cabin walls to mimic the city’s jagged lemonstone cliffs. She left it and the coachman at the fountain square, opting instead to weave through the boiling crowd on foot. 

It was so strange – Portia had passed the shop many times before, in a back alley by a few of the other artisanal shops that the palace sometimes patronized, including an absolute gem of a corseter who supplied the Countess’s impeccable collection of delicates. She’d always been curious about the magic shop, the magician’s crest swinging from its signpost, the lantern glowing with what seemed like rainbow-tinged fire, the curious trinkets, potions, and gemstones twinkling in the picture window, but she’d never had the courage nor the time to wander in and explore. 

But today, the lantern was out, the doors locked, the curtains drawn; Portia received no answer, no matter how many times she knocked. She even snuck through the weedy side alley and up the steps to the little back porch, covered in exotic plants, some wrapped in muslin cloth for the winter. But the back door, too, was locked tight. 

Portia chewed on her bitten-down fingernails, mind and heart racing as she paced a furious circle on that little porch, thinking, thinking. Should she try to pick the lock, see if this Iris woman was still home? But if she was home, it was hardly as if she could force her to come with her, if she’d decided to ignore her summons. Would she, an old favorite, ignore a summons from the Countess? Is that why she had left the Countess’s household… a falling out? 

And then what would she think, one of the Countess’s handmaidens desperately breaking into her home? What if she was occupied? The name, _Julian Nikolyavitch Devorak_ , flashed like sparks in the back of her mind – a long braid of wild auburn hair; shoulders, broad but skinny, freckled in the Nivenese summer sun; a crooked, indulgent smile as she showed him the conch shell she’d found, the sea still whispering in its whorls – 

What if…? 

She shook the intrusive thought from her mind, the memory dissolving like footprints in sand. Iris must have left already. If she was traversing the city by foot, it could take morning and afternoon to reach the palace. With a decisive nod, fist pressed certainly into her palm, Portia squared up her shoulders and hustled back to the wide main street that stretched through the Market district. 

The most popular baker was pulling braided challah from his giant kiln, a tiny crowd gathering in front of his shopfront. In the next stall, a dark-skinned teaseller flashed her a wide, dazzling smile as the scents of spearmint and sugar syrup and green tea mingled beautifully, making Portia’s mouth water. And next to her – a fruitier, stall crowned with a pyramid of pomegranates, jewel-bright and fragrant. Portia slipped through the crowd without thinking, already assessing the pomegranates for bruises and discoloration; she was sniffing their stems, turning the fruits over in her hands, when a not-unkind voice slipped into her ear. 

“Saw you knocking on the door of the Indigo Child.” Portia turned, flashing her best, most unreadable smile – the fruitier was an older woman, short but spry, long, faded dark-blonde hair pulled away from her face in a wild bun, her eyes buggy behind large glasses. “Those kids keep strange hours, nothing for it. Try again at the end of your trip. Girl's probably sleeping off a hangover.” 

Portia raised an arched eyebrow at the fruitier, slowly placing more and more of the fruit in her basket, until she had almost a dozen. “You know the proprietor? Iris?” 

The shopkeep’s smile was wide. “Known her for years, since she came to live with Opal – her aunt, inherited the shop from her. A real spitfire, since she was young. And one of the most talented magicians I’ve ever met, aside from maybe Lale, Opal’s ma. Iris and Asra have run the shop together, on and off, for, oh. Seven years now?” She sighed, with obvious longing. “To be young again...” 

Portia unwound her coin purse from her waist, deliberately fiddling with the stays. “Asra?” 

The shopkeep laughed now. “Aye, Asra Niraj-Alnazar, her mentor. He’s been teaching her magic since she arrived in Vesuvia. They’ve been an item for quite some time.” She waggled her pinky now, a gesture Portia had long learned signaled a romantic relationship, but the shopkeep tutted. “Too bad he comes and goes. Leaves the poor girl in shambles, it does.” 

Portia hummed, glancing back at the shop, still visible up the hilly little sidestreet. “Interesting.” 

The shopkeep carefully counted the coins in the handmaiden’s hand, gracefully, wordlessly, accepting the offered extra pentacle. “Now what’s a pretty palace girl like you want with those magicians?” 

“The Countess has an interest in the arcane; I’m trying to track down some items for her.” Portia replied blandly, evenly, eyes flashing warningly. “Thank you for the pomegranates. I’ll be sure to stop by again.” 

“You do that.” The shopkeep’s smile was still warm, not her first time at the rodeo. “Thank you for your business.” 

So she was still sleeping, Portia mused, lips pursed, as she wandered away from the stall – she could feel the tension in her fingers, her chest, receding now with each breath. And this Iris woman was involved, tangled in a different, more complicated love. No time for – 

She shoved the thought down again, squaring up her shoulders and hiked the basket of pomegranates up on her hip as she skipped now with purpose through the bazaar. Might as well run her errands and check back in later. She quietly ticked off the shops on her list, the herbalist, the florist, that very fancy druggist, and then, the fussy bakery in the Heart, that would have to be last…

But first, Portia thought with a coy grin – she ducked into a twisting stairwell, one she knew well. A fortuneteller’s booth, a miniscule little tent of magenta, decorated with gold and silver baubles, rose-gold flames. Well known for their love readings. Portia ducked in without greeting, that same winning, unreadable smile on her face. 

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite customer!” Chirped the fortune-teller, a heavyset middle aged woman with a penchant for turquoise eyeliner. “Sit, sit, sweet pea. Would you like some tea? I’ve a new blend.” 

“Not today, Mai-Ara.” Portia’s sunny smile didn’t wane even as she sat. “I’m in a little bit of a hurry.” 

“You’re always in a hurry, sweet pea. But you couldn’t resist stopping by, eh?” Mai-Ara said with a knowing wink. “Are we still doing a love reading today? The same mystery woman?” 

Portia felt her flush rising, even as she nodded. Mai-Ara laughed, and shuffled the cards skillfully, seven cards laid out quickly. With a practiced gesture, ritual, Portia flipped the first six of the cards, their fantastic colors and symbols still all but a mystery to her, even as she held the same image in her heart. A profile, unforgettable, the long, pointed nose, the glossy lips, dark skin like polished wood, hair loosed from a small pile of baubles, pearls and emeralds and jade…

Mai-Ara hummed knowingly, turquoise nails tapping against her lips. “Oh my, sweet pea. It seems that the tides are shifting.” 

Portia’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward a little, the basket of pomegranates still balanced on her hip. The names of the cards winked back at her, pentacles and priestesses and swords, but even after all this time, the meanings eluded her. “What does that mean?” 

Mai-Ara smiled, pointing the first row. “This row represents what you bring to the relationship dynamic. Your nature, who you are. The actions available to you, what you can control. And then, what is out of your control.” Her smiled widened to a grin as she tapped the first card. “ **The Star**. We’ve seen this before, haven’t we? Even when darkness creeps into your corners, you’re full of hope and light, of good humor. Your work fills you up, even when it drains your cup. Your higher purpose is closer than you think.” 

Mai-Ara pointed now to the next card, the **three of pentacles**. “A temple cannot be built without the knowledge of the priest, the eye of the architect, and the skill of the stonemason. Even when you do not see eye to eye with others, you are able to collaborate and coordinate for the greater good. You may not be the one the idea is born from, but you may be the one who brings the pieces together.” Mai-Ara’s eyes flitted to Portia’s, glinting knowingly. “Fitting for the Countess’s favorite, no?” 

Portia said nothing, only pointing to the next card. “ **The Wheel of Fortune**.” She murmured. “What does that card mean?” 

Mai-Ara hummed softly. “There is much that will always be out of your control.” Her hand hovered over the card, then retracted softly. “Remember that no matter what, the Universe gives back what you put into it.” 

She shifted seamlessly to the next row. “ **The High Priestess, reversed**. The **nine of swords**. **The Fool**.” She furrowed her thick, unplucked brows now. “Your beloved is disconnected from the source of her power. She is plagued with nightmares and swirling, spiraling thoughts. Even if it may not feel like it, she’s in control of her thoughts patterns. But this may be a struggle that she is losing, even as she grows and changes.” The last card, she bit her lip. “And there is another presence, a strong one, that will shift the tides for her. For both of you. The beginning of something bigger, bigger and brighter.” 

Portia’s heart pounded loudly in her ears. “Then…?” 

The last card, Mai-Ara flipped herself. The **two of cups**. Her smile was small, if rueful. “After all that, it will be only the beginning.” Her eyes, warm, slipped shut, as a soft, real, real smile flooded her. “That means hard work and uncertainty, sweet pea. But that doesn’t scare you, does it, Portia?” 

“Never has. Never will.” Portia grinned, even as her heart sank, passing a pentacle into the old woman’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, Mai-Ara.” 

“No, thank you, Portia dear.” She murmured, smiling fully, turquoise eyes sparkling. “Remember, the future you seek is closer than you think. Keep your eyes open to the possibilities.” 

“I will.” Portia winked, hiking up the basket on her hip as she stepped backwards out of the tent, straight into the ass of someone else. She staggered to keep her balance, spinning around – the basket slipped from her hip, pomegranates tumbling down onto the steps. 

“Oh, shit!” Portia cried, ready to grab wildly for the fruits, but a sudden snap split the stillness of the stairwell – arcs of shimmering, pearly light swirled around the pomegranates, freezing their fall before any of them hit the jagged stones, rotating gently in the air as if they were suspended like puppets on a string. 

Portia, eyes wide, stared up at the stranger she’d bumped into. A woman, mid-twenties, her blonde hair wavy and shorn so short Portia could see the winter-pale skin of her scalp peeking out around her ears, at the nape of her neck. Piercings – a silver ring in her septum, an amethyst stud set in silver on her nostril. Deep eyes, blue – no, indigo, cobalt and navy and violet all flashing, darting over the scene as her full lips parted. A beauty mark under her lip, another under her eye. Dark brows, dark lashes, a long, elegant neck, if a little softer, her whole body cloaked in a thickness that surprised Portia, her shoulders wide, her hips wider, the bare sliver of navel swathed in a layer of dimpled give. The image of the sketch, the woman looking over her shoulder, eyes dark and distant, flashed in front of Portia’s eyes. 

_Iris. Iris Keshet._

She was already gathering up the fruit, pushing the wavy hair out of her face as she knelt and placed each one in the basket – it was then that Portia saw the child, a ragged little urchin with a hand-whittled ocarina, watching the pretty magician with wide eyes. In his lap was a substantial chunk of bread, the same bread Iris had tucked under her arm as she handed Portia her basket, eyes still sparkling with magic.

“Are you Iris Keshet?” Portia asked, before she could help herself. The magician, Iris, narrowed her eyes in suspicion, and for a moment, Portia thought she might bolt; with hardly a second thought, she extended her freckled, calloused hand, smiling her winning, unreadable smile. 

“I’m Portia. I work at the palace for the Countess. We’re expecting you.” She let herself laugh, not a her sweet, secret laugh, but the loud barking laugh, a laugh of relief, of uncertainty, from her belly – Iris’s suspicion, her furrowed brows, melted away into a look of quiet confusion, barely masked, even as she took Portia’s hand, shaking firmly. 

Portia’s eyebrows rose, pleasantly surprised. “A firm handshake...I like that. There’s a carriage waiting for me after I finish my errands.” She paused for a moment, as if thinking, then winked, as if they shared a juicy secret. “Come with me. It’s much more pleasant than climbing seven thousand steps, trust me.” 

It was then that this Iris smiled, widely – Portia felt her neck grow hot, overwhelmed, for a moment, at the woman’s sudden warmth, her openness. “That would be lovely.” Even her voice shocked Portia, low and musical, lilting with the barest hint of accent that the handmaiden couldn’t quite place.

Portia barely recovered, offering her hand to the surprising woman, which Iris took gladly. Portia practically dragged her down the staircase, back into the crush of the market. She squeezed the woman’s hand, glancing back at her – she was startling at all angles, even as she looked back at the roiling market crowd that jostled them, her dark eyes wide and bright, her head on a swivel. 

Portia’s heart ached, ached as if it was breaking. It was no wonder, no wonder this woman, this Iris, had caught the eye of the Countess so long ago, caught the eye of… Portia turned away, a biting heat rising in her belly, a heat that scared her a little. She distracted herself with humming, singing mindlessly as she lead this beautiful woman, this beautiful, _powerful_ magician around by the hand through the market, the very first song that popped into her mind, echoing in her ears like a hazy dream, a far-away memory...

“ _There was someone that I knew before /  
a heart from the past that I cannot forget /  
I let him take all my gold and hurt me so bad /  
and now for you, I have nothing left /  
Of all my gold..._” 

The herbalist, the druggist, the florist, the magician was quiet at all of them, standing off in the corner, examining wares, rubbing her temples as Portia placed her orders – she’d long determined Iris was suffering from a massive headache, probably from her hangover. Portia was gentle, quiet, as she lead her through the market, long versed in handling headaches just like this. 

It was only after she’d slipped out of the confectioner’s (the orchestra of smells, cinnamon and marzipan and praline, seemed to trigger her, eyes scrunched and misting over as soon as they turned into the arched doorway – Portia graciously asked her to wait outside), that Portia realized she wasn’t hungover, but in actual, unenviable pain, both hands cradling her head as the crowds rushed by around her. Portia reached out for Iris, but thought better of it, instead pretending to read the list in her notebook one last time. “That should be the last of them… Are you ready, Iris?” 

The magician offered no response but a single, sullen nod, and Portia couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for her, taking her hand once more as they wove through the crowds to the square, where her carriage still waited. Iris gratefully took the proffered boost as Portia helped her into the carriage, waiting patiently as she settled before rapping on the ceiling, bracing herself for the lurch as the carriage sped forward. 

She heaved a sigh, slipping her feet out of her sandals and tucking them up under her. “I’m sorry we couldn’t talk out there. It’s just too loud.” She paused, eyeing Iris once more, her plain but fine clothes, the way she fiddled with the ruffled neckline of her cropped white shirt, how she pressed her fingertips into the space between her eyes – did she think she was being subtle? “It’s exciting to have a guest of honor at the palace, especially a talented magician.” Portia continued. “Milady had her seamstresses up all night to work on fine outfits for you, and asked the chefs to prepare a very special dinner for tonight. She may even ask for the Golden Goose.” Portia let her eyebrows waggle conspiratorially. 

To her surprise, Iris swallowed, her large, dark eyes finally flitting to Portia’s – she was awash, for a moment, in her startling beauty, but also her crushing uncertainty, her simmering pain, so different than that cool, confident woman in the sketch. “Portia… I’ve never been to the palace, ever in my life. Is there anything I should know?” 

For a moment, Portia’s heart skipped with fear as her mouth fell open. Never been to the palace? Was this the wrong woman, somehow? Not the woman who was Nadia’s favorite, who was partners with… And then she remembered, the sadness in Paloma’s eyes, the softness of Rema’s smile. Something clicked, something kind and sad and compassionate welling up inside of her. She didn’t remember. Iris Keshet didn’t remember her life before, her life at Nadia’s side. An injury, a sickness? Maybe a curse? And if she didn’t remember court, didn’t remember Nadia…

Portia smiled, just barely, not her unreadable smile, but a true smile. “If Milady invited you, you’re supposed to be there. You’ll learn the etiquette quickly. If you’re as kind and polite as you were to me today, you’ll do fine.” Then, she couldn’t help it – she laughed, hearty, lovely. “Just be sure to bathe! There’s nothing that Nadia hates more than dirty guests.” 

Even with her forehead cradled between her fingers, Iris’s brows raised, the very corner of her mouth curling into a knowing smile. “Nadia…?”

Portia felt herself reddening, her mouth tightening as she backtracked. “Oh, I mean… the Countess… Milady…” 

Iris laughed now, leaning forward, her chin resting on her palm, even as her eyes were still hazy with lingering pain. “Not everyone can get away with being so familiar with the Countess and live to tell the tale. How close are you with her?” 

Portia’s cheeks were bright and hot now, and her heart pounded loudly in her ears (they were probably bright red, too) as she swallowed heavily, searching for her response. “The Countess is not as unkind as her reputation. And I’ve worked in Milady’s household for two years now, so I’d say I know her quite well.” 

Iris hummed, smirked, one thick brow raised raffishly, and for a moment, Portia saw a glimpse of that woman from before, the insecurity from before melting away into easy confidence – or perhaps lacquered over with a thick layer of bravado, Portia wasn’t sure. All she knew was she saw what Nadia, what… what everyone must have seen in her before, her teasing, knowing, understanding eyes, like they shared a delicious secret – and, Portia realized, they probably did, with the way her cheeks still burned – but that it was safe with her, mutually assured destruction. She wasn’t just beautiful, a powerful magician, Portia realized – she was clever, clever and kind. Her heart strangely sank, a familiar, defeated, deflated sadness washing over her. 

The carriage slowed, and Iris turned, craned her neck to peer out of the little windows. Portia watched as her eyes widened with wonder, almost childlike, at the outstretched ivory towers, the sprawling gates, the glimmering stained-glass windows; an image rushed to Portia, not the sketch, but the Fool card, shorn blonde waves, eyes drawn up to the horizon, wide with wonder, just pricked with fear. The ruffles of her blouse, around her shoulders, like white rose petals. The fragmented, art deco wood paneling like precarious cliffs behind her, adventure and threat, both.


	3. The High Priestess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **dodie - she**
> 
> _CW: body dysmorphia_

Portia stood outside of the wide mahogany doors, carved beautifully with three glowing goddesses, bellies and breasts round, with sweet, supple give. They were crowned with tiny, slender nymphs, dressing the goddesses, braiding sweet pea and winterlily and lavender into their hair, and at door’s borders, the blooms were inlaid with gemstones, lapis, opal, amethyst, jade, the whole scene abundant and fertile, gorgeous. Portia had always found it fitting, so perfectly Nadia, and yet somehow, even just looking at these doors – just the _doors_ – made her feel flushed and hot under her collar, so hot that she wiped her brow, brushed a thick, errant curl away from her eyes, as she knocked. 

“Ah, Portia!” A voice called, honeyed, thick, accented. “Do come in.” 

Portia knew she was beet-red as she slid one of the doors into its wide pocket, slipping into Nadia’s chambers with hardly a sound. Normally at this time, mid-afternoon bleeding softly into early evening, Nadia would be napping, nursing a headache from the day’s frustrations, or sitting at her desk, steadily chipping away at the unbelievable pile of correspondence that had accumulated over the three years she’d slept. But today, she was bustling about the room in just her tawny robe, freshly bathed, filling the entire cavernous room with her perfume, jasmine and lavender. 

Gown upon gown had been tossed haphazardly on her wide round bed, an eyewatering rainbow of all colors and embellishments, gold chain and crystal embroidery, lace and tulle and mesh. Nadia’s smile was wide, her wine-sea eyes sparkling fondly, as she turned to Portia. 

“I could use your discerning eye, Portia, dear. I cannot seem to make a decision.” Her lips, dark even without her signature glossy lipstick, curled back into the serious moue that Portia was so used to. “I want to welcome our guest, but not overwhelm her. She is not used to palace life, that much is certain.” 

Portia said nothing at first, only letting her brows furrow a tiny bit as she gingerly lifted up one of the gowns, a column of sunset orange and gold silk with soft indigo and plum gauze. “You want to look the part, but not too ostentatious.” 

Nadia tittered. “Precisely.” She lifted up a dress, twisted silks that looked like they would barely cover her breasts, unfurling into lush petals of fabric at the waist, creating a wild, undulating train of rain blue and misty purple – Portia swallowed heavily, imagining Nadia in it, even as Nadia laughed softly to herself, tossing it aside. “Understated but elegant. I’ve had a new outfit furnished for her – cerulean velvet, white silk and gauze. I still need to dress for my station, but I don’t want to...” 

“Show off too much.” Portia setting aside the sunset tulle. “She’s to be treated like a friend, not as a subject.” 

“Ah.” Nadia smiled again, secretly now, and turned away to settle at her vanity. “I should have just had you dress me, Portia, and saved myself the hassle.”

Portia’s heart hammered as she tried to keep her gaze pointed away, at the task in front of her, the mountain of finery, but Nadia shifted in her periphery, peering into the mirror – pulling her hair up, turning this way and that, letting it fall back around her shoulders in sheets of undulating, shimmering purple. “I suppose how I wear my hair will depend on the gown, won’t it, hm.” She muttered to herself, puttering now with the drams and stoppers on her vanity. Even in this mundane minutia, Portia found herself staring, her breath caught in her throat. “Have you an update on our guest, Portia?” 

Portia bit her lip, grateful Nadia couldn’t see her as she turned back to her work, sorting the definite nos from the maybes from the possible candidates. “I brought her back to the palace with me from the Market, and sent her immediately to the baths. She seemed to have a bit of a headache – I asked Ami and Primula to add peppermint and rosemary to the baths. She’ll be ready with time to spare for dinner, which is on schedule. I checked with the kitchen staff before coming up here.” 

“Ah, you think of everything, Portia dear.” The Countess murmured. “Thank you for fetching her.” There was a long, careful quiet, only the rustling of fabrics, the distracted clinking of glass on glass, glass on wood.

“What did you think of her?” Nadia finally asked, turning back to Portia – the handmaid jumped, scrambled, quickly consolidating the pile of silks and satins in front of her. (She always found herself gravitating to either very light colors, lavenders and sky blues – the colors Nadia herself loved – but also the very dark, black with gold, shimmering emerald green, and blood red, their moodiness befitting Nadia’s statuesque figure, her playful, solemn eyes.)

“Um.” Portia paused a moment, her brow furrowed. “She was not quite what I expected. Rather… normal.” 

“Ah, yes.” Nadia perked up a little, now absentmindedly perusing her jewelry. “She was dressed rather plainly, wasn’t she? And the shop was quaint. Not at all like I remember the court magicians of my childhood.” Nadia sighed, her eyes trained to one of the tall stained-glass windows, eyes misty, wistful. “She is probably used to being free to roam, Iris. Do you think...” Her voice trailed off, even as she turned to Portia. “Do you think she will find it suffocating here?” 

Portia lifted the three gowns she’d selected up, hanging each of them on their hooks over the edge of the changing screen – a phantasmagorical embroidered one-shoulder gown, a lace dress with tropical flower and leaf appliques, and a lavender silk with a small train of seafoam and violet tulle. “I have a hard time believing anyone would find being by your side suffocating, Milady.” 

Nadia’s expression was indulgent, even as she stood, let her palm come to rest on Portia’s shoulder – the handmaiden felt as if her skin was aflame, aflame and sparkling. “You are too kind, Portia.” Nadia murmured, eyes swimming over her choices. “The lavender silk, I think. Excellent choice, dear.” 

Portia couldn’t help but smile as she took the dress off its hook – she’d guessed correctly, after all. She even allowed herself a glance up, a glance at Nadia as she shrugged her soft robe from her shoulders, the satin falling away as she held out her arms to Portia. Skin like polished wood, even the parts that never saw sun, the flow of her hips, the taper of her waist – careful muscles, from years of horseback riding and fencing and pilates, her shoulders strong but slim, her stomach girdled and shapely. 

Portia unzipped the dress deftly, held it out for Nadia to step into, shuffling it up her sides. Her skin was so soft and smooth, no doubt from the expensive and luxurious products from all over the earthside realm, bathing salts from Nivevon, shea and coconut lotions harvested from forests across the Courageous sea, cleansing oils pressed from flower petals that only grew on the northern islands of Nippon. And it smelled so delicious, lavender and jasmine perfume, and that heady scent of luxurious oil, like trees – Portia couldn’t help but inhale as she buttoned up the pearls that ran up the back of the gown, adjusted the flowing tulle train, the scent making her dizzy, dizzy and drunk. 

“Portia...” Nadia murmured, as if she had been lost in thought. Portia hummed softly in reply, now assessing Nadia’s hair, thick and gleaming, as if lacquered, nearly to her knees. Portia felt a familiar urge to convince Nadia to wear it up, a dancer’s bun or a braided crown, so her long, lovely neck could show – but she knew the Countess would never agree. “I hope you are not distressed by today’s events.” 

Portia was startled from her reverie, hands pausing in the Countess’s hair. “Why would I be distressed, Milady?” She asked finally, keeping her tone even, even and careful. 

Nadia turned back to her, eyes bright, kind, knowing. “I never meant to keep it from you.” 

Portia bit her lip, looked down, guiding Nadia to sit in her vanity’s chair. “What you choose to do with your personal affairs is no business of mine, Milady.” She replied softly, piling up Nadia’s hair at the nape of her neck. “Would you let me put your hair up today?” 

Nadia’s expression in the mirror was solemn, somber. “Valerius advised me not to tell anyone, even you. Until we knew more.” 

Portia’s brows furrowed. “And then… you couldn’t wait. You wanted to see her.” 

The Countess slumped a little in her chair. “I needed to know. …If she was like what I saw in my dreams.” 

“You dreamed of her.” Portia’s voice was small – she was braiding Nadia’s hair now, small segments to be pinned up – her non-answer was as good of a yes as Portia was ever going to get. “I didn’t know that.” 

Nadia shook her head, only enough for Portia see, not enough to disturb her work. “I was long taught that no one wants to hear about other people’s dreams.” 

“I would listen to your dreams.” Portia’s eyelashes fluttered, her hands flying down Nadia’s hair, the motions familiar, even as her fingertips singed with happiness, to feel the silken hair glide under them. “In Nevivon, it’s something of a tradition to share dreams. Nearly every morning, parents ask their children what they dreamed of.” She swallowed, the sour lump back in her throat. “I used to hate hearing of my brother’s dreams over breakfast. They were absolute nonsense, just the dumbest – I’d kick him under the table, just to get him to shut up.” 

Nadia’s laugh was hardly a huff, the tiniest turn of the corners of her mouth. She was quiet a moment, lips parting. “I didn’t know you had a brother. Is he younger than you? ...Older?” 

“Older.” Portia murmured. “Ten years older.” 

“That’s quite a spread.” Nadia replied, her voice warmer. “...My eldest sister is 16 years older than I.” 

Portia’s smile was unreadable now, reaching the end of Nadia’s hair, the last braid secured, looping them now around Nadia’s crown. “Iris came to you in your dreams, you said?” 

“Many times.” Nadia’s eyes fluttered closed. “I’m standing in a field of flowers, of irises, funnily enough, but they smell not of irises, but of ash, and they crumble under my feet. I hear a voice, and I turn, and I see her – she looks like a warrior, a gray dress, a leather guard around her hips, two swords sheathed at her sides.” Portia’s heart was pounding, her fingers slowing, as she watched Nadia’s eyes, for a moment, grow watery. “She holds out a hand to me, her eyes flashing, and her mouth opens –” She gasped, breathless, shifting under Portia’s fingers, and Portia took the slightest step back, eyes wide. “That’s when I wake. Sometimes, I hear her voice. _Find me. I’ll always help you._ ” 

Portia felt her lips purse, her brows furrow. “And what if she’s not like your dreams, Milady?” She was pinning the braids to her crown now, a heavy, tyrian halo. 

“Then she, too, shall be a disappointment.” Nadia muttered, surveying herself in her reflection – Portia couldn’t help but not the despondency in her eyes, even as she looped a finger through the updo, loosing one, two, three small braids to drape over her pronounced collarbone. 

“Well.” Portia began, now turning to Nadia’s collection of jewelry, a tall, opulent jewelry stand in the corner, locked with a special key that Portia procured from the keyring in her bosom. “My grannies would tell you that dreaming of ash means guilt, but dreaming of flowers means change, change and hope.” 

“Fitting.” Nadia mused, turning her head this way and that in the mirror, admiring Portia’s work on her hair. “In the language of flowers, irises symbolize hope. Hope, wisdom, and courage.” 

Portia paused for a moment, her fingers lingering over an emerald necklace, a half-moon, pointing downward, one that Nadia never wore. She drew it up, so the jewel shimmered and spun in the afternoon light. “What do you think of emeralds today, Milady?” 

Nadia perked up for a moment, eyes wide, the smallest smile. “Yes, emeralds, I think, but...you’ve reminded me, dear.” 

Nadia stood suddenly, whisking off to her massive closet, returning with a deep, emerald-green gown, grinning at Portia’s furrowed brows, her bemused smile. The handmaid could see immediately it was not made for the Countess, the hem nearly a foot shorter, the bust and hips much, much wider. 

Nadia’s smile was wicked as she held aloft, adjusting one of the large bows on the sleeves with a sure, elegant hand. “I asked the seamstresses to whip up something a little extra when I submitted the request for Iris’s wardrobe. It will be an enchanting color on you, don’t you think? Bring out your lovely complexion, set off your gorgeous curls.” 

Portia felt as if her heart was all the way in her throat, beating so loud that it would shake her apart, but still, she found her voice, small and sad. “Milady, I couldn’t… it’s too fine for someone like me.” 

“Nonsense.” Nadia tutted. “And what of this, someone like you? A capable, valued member of my household? ...A trusted friend?” Nadia’s eyes were warm as she held the dress out for Portia to examine – the lustrous fabric, shifting between warm and cool greens, the cinched waist, the stacked bows on the sleeves. “It would please me if you wore it for dinner service tonight.”

Portia swallowed. “If it would please you, Milady.” 

“Excellent.” Nadia handed it to Portia, who took the hook, held it up, hands trembling – her entire body trembled when Nadia laid her hand on her shoulder. “I cannot tell you how much I’ve valued your help and your companionship these last few months, dear Portia. I mean it when I say I’ve come to see you as a friend. There is no one else I would trust Iris’s care to.” 

Portia bit her lip to keep it from quivering. “Of course, Milady. Thank you.” 

“Very good.” Nadia purred. “And, Portia dear, you know Nadia will do when it’s just you and me. Now.” She took the emerald from Portia’s hand – she paused a moment, brows furrowing, lips parting, eyes stormy, before placing it carefully back in the jewelry stand, drawing out instead several strands of lavender pearls. 

“You’re welcome to dress here, but I must quickly powder my face and attend to some business before dinner. You can use the closet or the bathroom, if you like.” She was surveying herself in the mirror, pinning the pearls to her long neck, turning again, this way and that, the way that made Portia’s heart ache, before turning back to Portia, winking. “Though it saddens me I won’t be able to see you in your gown until dinner.” 

Portia could think of nothing to say, only to nod, before ducking into the closet. There, surrounded by Nadia’s finery – what of it wasn’t piled on the bed – she held the dress out in front of her. It wasn’t anything that Nadia would wear, much more subdued and austere, and yet – the shimmering fabric of the flouncy skirt, the delicate, barely-there golden detailing of the bodice, the delicious bows at the sleeves – it looked as if it was made for a princess, a princess that Portia was decidedly not. 

She turned away from the three angled, full-length mirrors (an absolute horror) and slipped into the dress. It fit her to the millimeter, the cinched waist sitting right where it should, the fabric comfortable and easy to move in, the skirt, though large, not so cumbersome that Portia couldn’t move about easily, perform her duties at dinner. She made a mental note to thank Minerva and her small army of seamstresses. 

Still, Portia couldn’t bring herself to turn around, to look at herself in Nadia’s mirror amongst Nadia’s finest, most wondrous things, instead toeing back on her plain slippers and scooping up her discarded servant’s uniform, her hands still trembling, the lovely fabric strange and alien against her prickling skin. 

She was thankful, when she slid open the closet door and whispered back into Nadia’s bedchamber, that the Countess had already taken her leave; Portia let the two little tears fall, hot, sad, indulgent things, before wiping them away with a frustrated swipe of her fingers, a utilitarian sniff.

And then, shoulders straightening, she was back, back and slipping through those lush, lovely mahogany doors to collect the Magician Iris for dinner.


	4. Wheel of Fortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hamilton Leithauser, Rostam - In a Black Out**
> 
> _CW: No content warnings_

Portia hovered carefully in the butler’s pantry, holding her breath, her ear pressed to door. It was annoying – this way, she could hear, barely, but she couldn’t see, just making out the soft, silken tones of Nadia’s voice, spiderwebbing carefully around Iris, her voice lower, quieter, more uncertain. But if she shifted, peeking through the round keyhole, Portia could see the dining room – see the table, laden with the feast Hestion, Paloma, and Rema had prepared, see the half-turn of Nadia’s lips, the careful furrow of Iris’s brow, the way she worried her lip between her teeth while she thought. 

She hummed, frustrated, went to fiddle with a wild, tumbling curl, only to find that it wasn’t there. Before dinner, she’d stopped off at the launderies to drop of her worn uniform – Rosmerta and her launderymaids descended on her, ooh-ing and aww-ing at her dinner gown, making her turn for them, curtsy, even pretend to be a Courtier, barking outlandish orders while the girls howled. Roz, with a knowing smile, slipped away, only to procure Minerva, her older sister, whose eyes lit up immediately; Minerva herself had designed the gown, hand-embroidered the bodice, Portia discovered – an early birthday present, Min promised with a wink. 

She couldn’t bring herself to stop them when one of the saucier girls procured a lip oil from her bosom, the scent and color of peaches, dabbing carefully with a fingertip on the middle of Portia’s lips, then the tip of her nose and the tops of her cheeks. Another of the laundry girls, with curly hair like hers, descended on her with a thick hairbrush, pulling back her hair into a simple but elegant bun, securing her flyaways with soft, balmy wax. They showed her their work, in a pocket mirror the saucy girl carried in her bosom. With her cheeks flushed bright from embarrassment, she almost looked like a different woman – like a noblewoman, a noblewoman befitting her gown.

But here she was, a servant girl peering through keyholes, listening in doorways, trying to eavesdrop on the Countess and her guest, absentmindedly wringing the neck of a bottle of Gentle Noble between her palms, her brows furrowed with impatience.

A gentle, warning exhale at her back, and Portia straightened, looked carefully over her shoulder – two serving staff, each holding a plate of just-dressed salad crowned with roasted root vegetables, with spicy vinaigrette. Josef’s brows raised as Jihye slid open the door – Portia fanned out behind them as they swept in to replace the courses, whisking away the soups as she flitted to their shoulders, checking on their glasses of wine, topping them off. 

“The goat in the middle is supposed to be him...Lucio. Showing him providing for his people.” A shudder ran, electric and cold, down Portia’s spine. Nadia spoke so little, so little, of her former husband, that it still shocked Portia to hear even his name. The staff dared not mention him at all, the superstitious bunch. Most of them wouldn’t even go near his old wing, to the point where the dust on the ceiling swayed like the gauziest drapes. 

Portia caught just a glimpse of Iris, biting her lip in thought, before dipping her eyes down, willing her hands to steady. “He’s not just providing, though.” Iris finally muttered, her thick, shapely eyebrows furrowed. If Portia had found Iris startling before, the indulgences of the palace left her dazzling. Ami and Primula had shaped her shorn waves impeccably, pulling them away from her face just enough to show her soft, well-formed brow. Her lips and cheeks were bright, full and rosy, and her eyes were lined with dark kohl, making them wider, bluer. Portia almost didn’t recognize her, again, when she went to collect her for dinner in her cerulean velvet, her white silk and gauze pants, her soft midriff on full display.

“There’s more food than his guests can eat, at the sacrifice of the smaller animals. It’s wasteful.” Iris’s voice trailed of a little as she finished her thought, punctuated by a clumsy forkful of salad greens. Portia couldn’t help but think of the little boy, the one with the ocarina, to whom Iris had given some of her pumpkin bread on the winding stairs just that morning. 

Portia only just caught the sparks behind Nadia’s eyes as she filed back into the butler’s pantry behind Josef and Jihye, back to her same position, her ear pressed to the door. “Indeed, Iris, indeed. He loved to spoil his allies.” A pause, the tiniest clink of silverware. “Did you ever attend the masquerade?” 

Silence, deafening, only the quiet clatter of silver on china. “I didn’t, Milady.” Iris admitted finally, voice low, remorseful. “I could never afford a costume.” 

Portia could almost see Nadia’s brows furrowing, the tiniest hint of dusky color creeping up her neck at her mortification. “It is true that the masquerade was an extravagance, but it was much beloved by the Vesuvian people.” A gentle pause now, the tiniest clearing of the Countess’s throat, a tell that Portia had long learned meant she was about to say something important, something one required a steady heart, a steady voice. “I know that it is a bit of a sore spot among our citizens – it is overwhelmingly missed, and it reminds use how deeply we were all affected by Lucio’s murder.” 

Portia gasped, and Iris, poor thing, gagged loudly, coughing as Josef and Jihye swept past her, picking up the salad plates with a liquid motion, Josef carving and serving the braised lamb with practiced certainty. Portia was so shocked that she didn’t even notice that she missed her cue – she was watching the red on Iris’s cheeks, more than just embarrassment – she was flustered, uncertain, desperate to buy herself time. She took a wide, uncouth forkful of the lamb as Nadia raised an appraising brow, choosing to continue instead of comment, laying her fork aside with a heavy sigh. 

“Iris, you are probably wondering why I have summoned you here to the palace. The truth is, I have been planning this for some time.” There was a pause as Josef and Jihye brushed past her, Josef’s hand, this time, falling on Portia’s shoulder, squeezing gently, though she ignored him. “I am holding the masquerade again this year, on what would be Lucio’s birthday.” 

Portia didn’t quite hear the rest – her heart started hammering in her ears, her thoughts racing. She realized that Josef’s hand was still on her shoulder, tightening now – he was not flirting, he was _listening_ with her, his eyes wide, mouth open, with shock, shock and fear. He was still just a kid, hardly more than 18, but he had been at the palace when Lucio was Count, remembered his tempers, his wild whims, the lavish and licentious celebrations he threw. 

But the masquerade was a different beast entirely. There were rumors that swirled amongst the staff – every year at the masquerade, girls disappeared, people drank too much and died, were mauled in some horrible accident. Servants quit, servants collapsed from exhaustion, servants were assaulted, raped. It was not a time fondly remembered by her staff, and Portia’s heart sank at the thought, the thought of the panic that must have been searing through them now, searing through them the way it was searing through her. Another thing she had not known.

“There is just one loose end I would like to tie up, and that is where I’m asking for your help.” Nadia continued, her voice low, low and certain. “The doctor who confessed to Lucio’s murder still roams free. I would like you to locate him and bring him to me.” 

Portia inhaled sharply, her hand flying over her mouth, her eyes flying wide. The images flooded her again, the long auburn braid, the broad, skinny shoulders, the crooked, indulgent smile; soft gray eyes as he took the shell from her, held it up to his ear, laughed for her as he heard the murmur of sea; her little hand in his wide palm as they walked together into the surf, his voice low and sweet as he sang to her – _when you come home, I’ll lift you up, there’s only the two of us_ – as the sun set, fiery, foreboding, in front of them… 

She was only vaguely aware of someone pressing something into her hands, taking the bottle of white away from her and handing her the juicy Rostam red, letting it settle securely in the crook of her arm. Someone, Rema, her lip trembling strangely, patted the small of Portia’s back, and then she was moving, moving into the dining room with the chocolate custard, folded between layers of flaky, golden dough, wobbling divinely with each step, smelling faintly of sharp fruits, of wine. 

Portia had no words for Iris’s expression, her brows furrowed, her eyes wide with confusion, with carefully tempered alarm. Nadia’s brow was set, even as her eyes softened, the corners of her lips dropping into a soft moue of regret. “...Of this, I’m not sure. But it is most likely that he will be killed.”

 _He will be killed._ The words echoed like thunder through Portia’s head, the sound of Nadia’s voice, wan, drawn, ringing so sweet to her ear – and yet, her whole body reverberated with an unfathomable feeling, somehow tight and somehow too loose, spinning, spiraling, nothing ever, ever enough, the breaths she took, the beating of her heart, the things that flashed through her mind, calm down, stop that, you fool, she’ll know - 

Portia didn’t, couldn’t, notice the way her hands trembled, the way her fingers were suddenly grasping at nothing, not the heavy plate of custard in her hands, not the wine nestled between her elbow and her breast, gravity claiming her prize. Another snap, a spark in the crushing silence; Iris’s was facing her now, her hand outstretched to Portia, her body contorted with concentration, shimmering threads of her magic holding the dessert and the wine aloft. It was then Portia realized that she was crying, the tears hot on her nose, her cheeks. 

Nadia stood, so suddenly that the chair slid loudly behind her – Portia had never seen her wear an expression like that before, the lips parted, the brows raised, garnet eyes vibrating as she leaned forward, as if she was fighting back a wild, primal urge. “Portia...” 

“Forgive me, Milady.” Portia cut in, before she could think to mask the waver in her voice. “Slippery hands.” Someone, Rema, Josef maybe, was at her side, their hands on her shoulders – quickly, she shoved the custard and the wine into their arms, never letting them see her face, the tears were falling freely, dangerously now, her lip wobbling and her sight blurring. Blindly, she staggered back, through the polished pocket door, through the butler’s pantry, and into the servant’s hallway that connected the kitchens to the dining room. 

Here, she let herself crumple, carefully, so she wouldn’t soil the knees of her gown – and all of it, all of it rushed to her. Him, sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette, holding Lilinka’s hand as she cried, Maz on the other side of the table, her expression firm – him, tucking her in to bed, his gray eyes so soft and warm as he cooed to her, told her he’d be back soon, so soon, he’d come back for her, and then he sang her to sleep in his sweet voice, just like their father’s, Lilinka would always say, but Portia didn’t remember – the years, the years that stretched heavily between, her growing up alone in that house by the sea, caring for Lilinka as she grew older, more frail, and then – the letter, the letter she could just barely read, the one that lead her here to Vesuvia, to the palace, to search for him, for any _trace_ of him left on the earthside plane, where she somehow got tangled in this horrible beautiful web, wrapped in silks, unable to move, helpless, helpless, worthless – 

“Portia.” Rema’s voice in her ear, quiet, quiet and calm. “Portia, sweet pea, the Countess is calling for you.” Her hands, warm and gentle, on her cheeks, wiping her tears away with a soft cloth, the cloth she used to polish the wine bottles to a high shine. “Dry those tears, now. Everything will be okay.” 

“How do you know?” Portia found herself asking, her voice wobbly, wobbly and desolate.

“She doesn’t remember.” Rema whispered. “She doesn’t remember, but they were fast friends, the doctor and the Countess. He was the sweetest, gentlest man, and whip-smart, too. Kept the Count alive for years, when no one would have cried if he died. If he really set that fire...” Rema paused here, inhaling softly. “If he set that fire, you and I can drink ourselves dead on every bottle in the wine cellar, because the world won’t make sense anymore. I won’t know up from down.” 

“You’re that certain?” Portia whispered, a squeak in her voice like light peeking through a door. 

Rema nodded. “And if anyone could make sense of all of this. If anyone can find him. It’s Iris.” She exhaled now. “That woman’s magic like I’ve never seen before. And that was before...” She trailed off, and stood, holding her hand out to Portia, pulling her easily upright. 

“Portia.” Portia could hear Nadia’s voice now, quiet but commanding. Rema’s hand was still on her shoulder, squeezing gently, reassuringly, as Portia slid the door open, steepled her hands, and stepped through the room. 

If Portia looked worse for wear – her eyes, her nose, red from crying – then Iris looked positively green, the custard in front of her barely touched as she rose from her chair, following Nadia’s lead. The magician caught Portia’s eye, gave her a small, one-sided smile, her eyes fond, fond yet misty. Another headache, Portia immediately understood. 

“Portia, please return Iris to her bedchambers; she has much to think on tonight. Tomorrow, Iris, if you have further questions, I will be happy to answer them at breakfast. I look forward to our partnership, should you choose it.” Nadia’s eyes warmed, the corners of her mouth turning up in what Portia knew was a genuine, unguarded smile, before her eyes flitted to Portia’s – a brief flash of concern, quickly masked. She picked up her glass of wine a took a long drink as Portia whisked Iris away. 

They were silent as they wound through the hallways, Iris’s teeth sunk deep into her lip, fingertips on her temples, massaging gently, taking deep breaths. Portia stole secret glances at her, her profile, her longish nose wrinkled, her full lips contorted, her brows furrowed. She said nothing, so Portia said nothing, instead lost in her own head, trying to piece it all together. What was it everyone saw in her? She was beautiful, sure, she could do a little magic, but so many headaches, and she seemed so – so uncertain, somehow strangely blank (the amnesia maybe?) – yet Rema had seemed so sure, Nadia so enraptured… and him, he too, had bedded – if not loved (... _loved_?) – this uncertain woman, this unremarkable woman, frail and features blurred with pain – 

Iris turned suddenly, her eyes sharp with a focus Portia recognized now – a flurry of movement, a star drawn over her breast, the spell flooding the dark hallway with her rainbow light. She was facing the stairwell up to the abandoned wing, shadowy and foreboding after years of neglect, of long-held superstition. Portia even thought she saw one of the shadows shimmer, skittering away, but she couldn’t be sure – her eyes were on Iris, who was trembling, trembling again, like a newborn fawn, even as her magic, her protection, washed over Portia like a wave, so powerful that Portia almost staggered back.

“Iris.” Portia said softly, and Iris wheeled back around, her eyes wide, wide and misty, and Portia felt a wringing, sweet, in her heart, even as something simmered, dark, under her skin, something she shoved down, again, again. “Are you all right?” 

“I...” Iris took a deep breath, touched the gold-embroidered neckline of her cerulean shirt. “I heard something. ...It spooked me, I guess.” 

Portia hesitated only a moment before she gently grasped the magician’s shoulder. “The staff hears voices coming from that stairwell to the Count’s wing all the time. No one goes up there, not since...” 

Iris’s nod was curt – she glanced back over her shoulder as Portia locked elbows with her, felt her shake under her touch as she lead her back to her guest room. 

As soon as Portia crossed the threshold of the chambers, she started turning down the linens, checking the water in the pitcher by the bed. She half expected Iris to wander into the water closet, to close the door, give Portia her chance to shadow away, but instead, Iris stood awkwardly near the door, wringing her delicate hands, looking uncertain. 

“Well.” Portia said finally, straightening, the bedlinens fixed for sleeping. “You look as if you’re ready to drop, so I won’t keep you. But if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.” The smile she gave Iris was warm, as warm as she could muster despite her whirring mind. 

“I do have a question.” Iris said, suddenly, just as Portia was making to step around Iris for the door. “If you don’t mind me asking.” 

Portia let her eyebrows raise – mild curiosity, or mild irritation, Iris would never know. “Of course. What is it?” 

“You dropped dessert at dinner. Is… is everything all right?” In Iris’s eyes was something that Portia could barely understand – a genuine concern, certainly, but a spark of something – clarity? Could it be called that? Knowing? Did she...did she know? Had he… had he told her…? 

Portia couldn’t help the deep breath she took to steady herself, to keep herself from tearing up again – she felt her hands tremble, and chided herself, for being so mean. She opened her mouth once, closed it, furrowed her brows. “We were all so excited when the Countess announced we would be having a guest. Milady rarely entertains, and she seemed so happy. Yet….” She paused, swallowed, fighting back the quiver of her lips, the heat in her throat. “To think she asked you to come here for something like this...” 

Portia let her eyes catch with Iris’s, for just a moment – something came over her, like a shiver, like she’d never be warm again – and just as quickly, it was gone. Iris was staring straight at Portia, boring into her, her eyes vibrating. She swallowed, thickly, and continued. “For the first time since I can remember, the Countess is hopeful. If...if anyone can help her find the truth, it’s you.” 

Portia watched as the tense muscles in Iris’s shoulders relaxed, if only a little bit – with a little sigh, a gentle smile, the magician broke eye contact, looking now instead at the bed, her exhaustion clear. 

“Is that all?” Portia murmured. Iris nodded, once, giving Portia one more small, warm smile that only just reached her eyes, before she settled onto the pouf by the vanity. Portia curtsied and slipped out of the room, through the sliding door, without a sound, her heart pounding, pounding, pounding. For the first time in a long while, Portia felt bare, bare and raw, as if every careful of veneer had been stripped away with just one look, those deep eyes like the sea at night. 

Maybe she could understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upped from 5 chapters to 7, because i'm a glutton for punishment, I guess.


	5. Nine of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hayley Williams, boygenius - Roses/Lotus/Violet/Iris**
> 
> _CW: body dysmorphia_

It was dark again when Portia finally left the palace, making her way towards her cottage on the grounds – she’d had to consult with the kitchens, the seamstresses, regarding tomorrow’s menu, tomorrow’s dress for Iris – a fussy but gorgeous jumpsuit of snow white and an obi belt, one that Portia would no doubt have to tie onto Iris herself. Her feet ached, from her trip to the Market, from scurrying around the palace tending to both Iris and Nadia’s needs. All she could think of was drawing a bath for herself, soaking her tired bones, and collapsing into bed. 

But sitting in her garden, on one of the upturned stumps by the fire pit, a low fire dying down – how long had he waited for her? – was a familiar silhouette, tall and lean, hunched over his whittling. Long, dark blonde hair, straight as a pin, tied back in a high, messy bun at his crown, his shoulders and arms shapely from his work in the gardens. He was young, face still a little soft and full through the cheeks, but he was no younger than Portia. She smiled a little as she approached. Babouche, the head groundskeeper. 

“What are you doing here?” Portia teased, slinking so quietly up in front of him that he startled a little, his whittling knife flitting smartly back into its holster. “It’s well past dusk. No light for the gardening.”

“Portia.” Babouche murmured – his eyes, dark brown, like soil, twinkled in the low firelight. “Word reached me you’d had quite a day.” 

Portia couldn’t help herself – she rolled her eyes venomously. “Rumor spreads faster than fire in this place.” She moved to her porch, deftly unlocking the front door to her cottage; Babouche ducked under the low transom behind her without much more than an invitation – no need. 

“Thought I should stop by. Check in on you.” Babouche’s voice was low and smoky as he closed the door behind him, the lock clicking deftly under his certain fingers. Portia raised a brow at him, lighting the stove with one practiced strike of a match, water already singing from the sink into her favorite, trusty kettle. 

“You did, did you?” She purred softly, moving the full kettle from the sink to the stove. Large, calloused hands smoothed over her bare shoulders; she was still wearing the emerald gown, and when Babouche’s fingertips grazed the low, off-the-shoulder neckline, she sighed. “You have no ulterior motives for checking in?”

“You carry all your stress in your shoulders, cinnamon.” Babouche’s low voice rumbled in her ear. “Let me help you relax.” 

Portia snorted now, even as she melted into his touches, the strength he pressed into the pads of his hands against her shoulders, her upper back. “I’m tired, Babouche.” 

“Then let me do the work.” His lips lingered on her neck now, not kissing, dragging, just ghosting over the skin – it made Portia shiver, shiver in the best way. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” She turned around, threaded her arms around his shoulders – he was so tall that she could only just reach his neck. His dark eyes were lidded, smoky, as he smiled down at her, gently unloosing the pins in her hair, her wild curls springing free. 

“Cinnamon.” He cooed. “Let me.” He pressed his nose to her hair. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.” 

“All day?” She teased with a wink, craning away, tapping him on the nose. “Who knew you were such a dreamer?” 

Strong hands under her seat, lifting her – she let out a squeal of laughter, uncontrollable, as Babouche settled her on the counter, her legs straddling his hips. He kissed her now, hungrily, breathlessly, mouthing down her neck to the generous roundness of her breasts. 

“Min told me about this gown.” His lips dragged against the neckline, breath warm, warm. “I couldn’t help myself, imagining you in it. Plus...” Here his eyes flitted up to hers, darkening, darkening with desire. “It’s easy to dream when the one you’re dreaming of is so beautiful.” He murmured, hands smoothing against her waist, taking gentle handfuls of her softness. 

Portia snorted again, softer this time, but a tightness, a heaviness, wound around her heart and squeezed. “Now you’re just buttering me up.” 

“Cinnamon.” Babouche breathed, kisses lower, lower, kissing rolling emerald fields of silk now – he was kneeling, kneeling between her legs, lifting the hem of her dress, his touches soft and reverent as the silk whispered over her skin. “Let me show you how beautiful you are to me.” 

Portia sighed, this time with pleasure, her eyelids fluttering closed as the callouses of his palms, rough against her dimpled thighs, sang her skin to life. “How will you show me, Babs?” 

He didn’t respond, not with words – he was under her skirt, kissing her up her calves, cupping the muscle in his worker’s hands. Then, his tongue, licking alternating strips up her thighs to where she was unfurling, her breath hot and tight in her throat as he reached her sex. 

She wrapped her legs around his strong shoulders just as he tasted her, a slow, languid drag of his tongue that parted her for him. Portia rolled against him, gripping the counter as she leaned back against the cabinet, letting the familiar pleasure wash over her. 

How long had this been their routine, her and Babouche? How long had he come to her in the night with his dark, sleepy eyes, dicking her down so well that she could barely walk straight the next morning? Even before Nadia had awoken, he’d sought her out, something that Portia had never quite understood; he could have his pick of the palace girls – even the prettiest of the laundrymaids fawned openly over him. In fact, when he first starting flirting with her, she thought he was mocking her, the memories of the village boys who used to tease her, flirting with her only to blush, yell “fat” or “ugly!” in her face, flashed hot across her vision, making her ruthless in her defenses, vicious in her comebacks. 

Yet, he never relented, smiling indulgently as she dressed him down, when she ignored him. He left her little olive branches on her bed – whittled figurines, pressed flowers from the gardens, bottles of cinnamon oil or orange-blossom water from the orchards. It was only when Portia was named Head Servant, when she was drunk off her ass on Golden Goose after the party the staff threw her (the first time she’d tasted it – she nearly cried), did she finally relent, let him have her, finally saw the very real fervor he held for her, for the fullness of her figure, for her ample ass, her generous breasts, the secretive nature that ran deep, deep beneath her sunny surface. 

Even so – even as Portia pulled her skirts up around her hips, so she could unloose his long, long hair and fist her fingers through it as he pleased her, gritty and greasy and delicious from the day’s work, even as he looked up at her, his mouth buried in her, as if she had placed all the stars in the sky – she felt the same guilty twinge that always came over her, even as her orgasm bubbled up from between her lips, gushing from her in giggles, in gasps, in gushes. Babouche was a friend, nothing more – she felt nothing for him, not the way she felt for… for… 

Babouche was grinning as he wiped his mouth, as he turned off the range, the kettle singing softly as every part of Portia fluttered, like birds taking wing, like a stream bubbling over rocks, like the quiet steam rising from a perfect-temperature bath. He kissed her belly, her breasts, the space below her collarbone, his grip tightening against her waist. “Beautiful, cinnamon.” He murmured to her, but Portia barely heard him. 

She was only vaguely aware of him lifting her – she normally protested him picking her up, but this, this was the only time it made her feel small, small and pretty, when she was still swirling from release, like the draining waters of a bathtub – her back on the soft down bed, the freshly laundered sheets as his deft fingers worked open the closures on the side of her bodice. “Portia...” His voice was barely a whisper, barely a breath against the sensitive skin of her chest, her ribs, as he peeled the silk away, like a butterfly shedding their stifling cocoon. “Oh, Portia… cinnamon...” 

She flushed again, as he straightened over her, the pulling the dress down from her hips – she was nude now, his eyes roving over her, his hands grasping at her hips, rough, like she liked, hiking her up around him – he was hard, he was pushing down his pants, his fingers slipping inside her, making her sigh with delight. She closed her eyes, as she always did, when scissored his fingers open inside her, so gentle and careful with her body, making sure she was ready when he withdrew his fingers and gathered her into his lap, guiding her to straddle him. 

“You wanted to lead?” He whispered into her ear, stooping slightly, still taller than her even with her in his lap, with his hips rolling gently into hers, teasing, teasing. Portia let it take her over, the quiet fire now singing in her belly, the fire that didn’t care what she looked like, forgot about the mortifying rolls of her back, the dimples of her thighs, the loose of her breasts. 

Portia nodded, wildly, her mouth falling open in a groan, as she reached down and guided him into her – she bit her lip against the groan that threatened to rumble from her, against the delicious stretch of him, him rubbing against her as she rutted into him, one hand fisted in his long, loose hair, the other dragging down his muscled back. 

He arched, chuckled, his own calloused hands digging into her hips, guiding, guiding, as he growled. “That’s it, cinnamon...” He sighed, his wide mouth pressing to her hair, her crown. His smell, earth and green, vetiver and violets, wild and him, but Portia, Portia was imagining another scent, another smell that drove her absolutely wild, jasmine, jasmine and lavender, and that strange scent of oiled wood... 

She let her eyes flutter open – she saw not Babouche, his dark brown eyes, his blonde hair grasped between her freckled fingers, but mahogany skin, polished with sweat, full lips, glossy lips, wide as she panted, long tyrian hair tangled in Portia’s hands. When Nadia’s eyes fluttered open, her gorgeous, wine-colored eyes, they were blown wide, wide with want, wide with lust, wide with love. And the name, the name that fell from those lovely lips, left her shuddering, shuddering and breathless. 

“Pasha… Pasha, my Pasha...” 

This, this is what Portia had imagined for months, before the Countess had even woken up – when Babouche came to her, at first, it was just a fantasy, the pretty, sleeping Countess, like the fairy tales Lilinka used to tell her when she was too small to sleep in her own bed, sleeping curled up next to…

But then when she woke, when Portia took the gentle steps to know the otherworldly woman who laughed at her silly jokes, who smiled at her from across the room, who winked at her before she eviscerated a Courtier so diplomatically that they didn’t even know they were bleeding as they staggered away… Portia knew it was all her imagination, there was no way – no way a woman like Nadia could ever want her, not when – not when girls like Iris –

Babouche, under her, quivered – he was pulling her close now, spreading his knees like a butterfly, and Portia cried out as he plunged deeper into her. Portia’s vision blurred, her eyes fluttering open, they were moving in tandem now, her hips rolling against his, her arousal slicking his abdomen, as he thrust up into her, hands gripping her shoulders, her waist – 

And Nadia, behind Portia’s eyelids, sighed, sighed, tossing her long hair back, leaning back, arching her beautiful breasts forward, small and perky, her nipples dark and petal-soft and perfect. Her mouth was wide, wide and panting beautifully, as Portia rocked against her pleasure, her own release mounting, mounting, mounting. Then, Nadia lowered her eyes to hers, her delicious eyes flashing as she moaned, “Iris...” 

Portia couldn’t help but shudder, shudder at the sight that flashed in front of her eyes – the pretty magician, her creamy skin swathed in a lacy slip of the softest lavender, her breasts spilling out of the open cups as Nadia palmed them gently, thumbing the nipple, cooing as Iris keened, riding her strap with shameless abandon. 

Portia whimpered, quivering, and Babouche took this to be a sign – with a fluid movement, she was on her back again, his hips fluidly pumping into her, his thumb rubbing furiously against her clit, and Portia panted, howled, arched. Her pleasure was building now, even as panic, hot and acid, filled her stomach, searing up her throat. He growled, tensed, steeling himself – he was close, close, his eyes feral as they roved down to her – 

Nadia’s garnet eyes flashed, her full lips turning up into a wicked grin, as Iris writhed under her, her legs flying back, her feet on Nadia’s shoulders. The Countess’s eyes simmered as they flitted to the other side of the bed; another body, long and lithe, scattered with dark summer freckles, palmed himself furiously, tears of frustration, of degradation, slipping down his nose, their father’s nose, Lilinka used to always say…

“Stargaze! _Stargaze_!” Portia called out suddenly, clambering off of Babouche, trembling, trembling, all her insides acid as her vision spun, she wanted to vomit, she wanted to sob and to scream and to rip apart the sheets fisted under her, she wanted to – 

“Cinnamon.” Babouche’s whisper was fierce, confused, panicked. “Cinnamon, are you – what happened – ” He touched her shoulder, so lightly, as she cowered over the edge of the bed, but she recoiled. 

“No, don’t – ” She shrugged away from him, holding her shoulders, her arms crossed over her chest, and poor Babouche, his brows furrowed with concern, concern and uncertainty, as Portia edged away from him. 

“How can I help, cinnamon?” He muttered, but even in that, Portia knew, he was done with her, done and gone, she wasn’t worth it, she would never – never be worth it – 

“Go. Just go.” She managed, her voice barely a wobble; she was crying again, for the third time today – what a horrible, defeating day, a withering day, the armor she wore, soft like petals around her, warm as sunshine, wilting, stripped away, revealing the ugliness underneath, the red, the raw, the scarred, the unlovable – 

In her periphery, she saw Babouche shrink away, his movements slow, uncertain – waiting for her, for her to retract, for her to beg him to stay, but she wouldn’t, she couldn’t – she slunk into the sun-yellow sheets, pulling the blankets around her, cocooning herself in that unsatisfying warmth as he pulled his pants up, tucked himself away, glanced once over his shoulder as he crossed the room to the door. 

The lock had barely clicked when Portia started touching herself, furiously, tears still stinging in her eyes. She thought of nothing, nothing and no one, just the animal need of release – even she, in her steel resolve, could not fight those mocking, laughing, shouting demons. Not tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> *drinks wine, is mortified*
> 
> Well we learned a lot didn't we


	6. Two of Cups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Phoebe Bridgers - Garden Song**
> 
> _CW: no content warnings_

Then, of course, Portia couldn’t sleep. 

Even after masturbating furiously, she tossed and she turned as she chased the useless wish of sleep, Pepi protesting at the foot of the bed, eventually vacating for a more peaceful resting place. In that shadow-dipped darkness, hardly any moon to silver the window pane or break like the ripples of a stream across the wood-plank floor, she was alone with her racing thoughts, thoughts she plucked from her mind like errant hairs on her chin, only for three to spring up, darker, wirier, more insistent. 

Finally, with a roar of frustration, a flinging away of the sheets, she swung herself out of bed, tying her hair up into a wild ponytail. She shrugged on the thick robe in the bathroom, and, her feet bare, stepped out into the night. 

Vesuvia wasn’t quite as warm as Nevivon; even though the night was chilly, and early January sometimes left them with sharp frosts, with soft, fluffy snow flurries, the night was only crisp, not cold. Portia’s skin prickled under her robe, but her toes relished the feeling of soil and grass under her feet as she wandered through labyrinth. This late in the winter, few of the plants were blooming – the climbing lace, the whitewinter lily, the stiff petals of the bloodbloom, jagged like glass – but she barely saw them, her gaze pointed down at her feet, distractedly wringing her hands as she paced. 

She had the entire labyrinth memorized, each dead-end, each twist – Portia was oddly proud of her powerful inner compass, her innate sense of direction. It had helped her out of several sticky spots when she got lost in the sprawling spiderweb of passages that lay hidden in the castle. She thought, with a small smile, of the map she had inked carefully onto her kitchen table, hidden under the knit and lace tablecloths – the only things she’d brought with her from the house by the sea, almost as if she knew she wasn’t coming back to it for a long, long time. The last things Lilinka had made. The last thing her mother had made. 

But she wasn’t searching for hidey-holes and eavesdropping spots tonight – she was just looking for peace, for a place that would calm her thoughts. She knew of only one, one that never failed to soothe her – she slipped through the side entrance of the maze, near the north end of the palace. Nadia’s wing of the palace was crowned with a gorgeous reflection pool, nearly a half a kilometer long. In the slow-quiet of night, it was glassy and still, perfectly reflecting the palace in its waters. But Portia loved it most with just a very light wind, sending gentle ripples through the water’s surface, like the sea on a clear night; exactly how she remembered it, standing on the cliffs that ringed the house by the sea. 

On nights like this, when she couldn’t sleep, she would sit by the water’s edge, sometimes even dipping her feet into the pool, or drawing patterns in the water surface with her fingers, watching the ripples swim and swim and swim until they disappeared. It wasn’t quite the sea, the sea of her childhood – how she would wake up in the middle of the night and dangle her legs over the edge of the cliff and watch the ships, their golden lights reflecting in the ink-dark, sail in and out of the Salt-Ringed bay – but it was better than climbing the steps to the tallest towers of the palace, only to see it through a glassy window, or to wander the city at night to the docks. 

But tonight, she wasn’t alone – two figures, illuminated in the faintest limn of moonlight, sat at the water’s edge – or rather, one sat, lounging, the other was curled on the pool’s side, head in the first figure’s lap, fast asleep. At the faintest rustle of the mazes branches, the lounging figure’s eyes shot up - pointed in skepticism. Portia froze – it was the Consul, Consul Valerius, his long, light hair loosed around his shoulders, in nothing but his sleeping robe, a glass of dark red wine, like blood, in one hand – the other gently smoothed through the blonde hair of the woman sleeping in his lap. Rema. 

For a moment, she thought of retreating, pretending she saw nothing – but then the Consul’s eyes caught hers, flashed, and his chin lifted slightly, half in haughty condescension, half in silent acknowledgment. 

With a shuddering sigh, she curtsied, as daintily as she could in her robe. “Consul.” She murmured – despite their distance, in the still of the night, she knew he could hear her. 

“Head Servant.” He replied evenly. “Strange hours for rounds, is it not?” 

Portia sighed again, her hands naturally coming to their careful steeple, the one that kept her from wringing them nervously when talking to the beautiful, the powerful. “My apologies for interrupting you, Consul. I couldn’t sleep.” 

To her surprise, the Consul huffed softly, something like laughter. “A common malady in this palace.” He gestured again with his chin, higher this time, and Portia followed his gaze – the high north balcony was lit with soft, glowing gold light. Nadia’s room. She, too, was awake. 

Portia bit her lip, thinking carefully. “Can you not sleep either, Consul?” She finally asked. “I could run to the kitchens, brew you some sleeping tea.” 

The Consul shook his head softly – did Portia see the tiniest, softest curl of smile? – as he gently threaded a wave of Rema’s hair behind her ear. “No need – I haven’t yet retired. The Palace Sommelier sourced Highnoon Rendezvous for me – an impeccable vintage. I couldn’t bear drinking it alone.” 

Portia hummed softly, glancing now at Rema. She, too, was in a decadent sleeping gown, one that was far too fine for her palace stipend, generous as it was. Portia wisely said nothing, even if she let the corners of her turn up in silent understanding. “Very well. I’ll take my leave, then.” 

“Do you drink wine, Portia?” The Consul asked, with a sly smile, as he set down his glass, picked up the bottle in the grass – it was still more than half full. “We unwisely opened the second bottle. I find little delight in drinking it alone.” 

Portia swallowed – it was all clicking together. He was drunk, drunk and well-fucked, glowing. “I’m used to the cheap stuff, Consul. It would be lost on my palette.” 

At this, he laughed, truly, even if it was just a chuckle. “Indulge me. Perhaps it will help you sleep.” He took Rema’s glass, empty, and filled it with a generous glug of the rich wine. 

Portia’s stomach tightened as he held the glass out to her; how had she managed to catch the Consul in such a generous mood? He was normally so sour, so snooty – he’d earned a number of nicknames from the palace staff, few of them favorable. And yet, as she took the glass from his hand, he smiled, almost a little shyly, looking pointedly away as she settled awkwardly on the ledge next to him. 

For a moment, she stared at her wine, and then made to drink, tipping it back, but he tsked softly at her, half that frustrated click of his tongue that she knew so well, half a cluck of amusement. “No, here. I’ll show you.” 

He held the wineglass out in front of him the stem pinched between his thumb and his forefinger. “Appreciating a wine like this – a good wine, not a wine you just drink to get drunk – you need to court it. Spend the time to get to know it.” His eyes flitted to her, cool and appraising, even as the water tossed up it sparks of light into them. “Color is first. What do you see?” 

Portia blinked, miming the way he held the wine out in front of him, staring, staring. “It’s… red?” 

To her surprise, Valerius laughed again – this time, one loud bark of laughter, uncouth, echoing through the gardens like a dog’s bark in the night. A drunken laugh, his cheeks bright with wine. “You’re not wrong, Portia. But look past what you know. What do you _see_?” 

She looked again, this time drawing it closer to her eye, closer to the light from the palace behind them. “It’s… red, but the color of… pomegranate seeds. Or cranberries. Not the dark parts, or the juice, but the bright parts. Where the light hits, like the facets of a ruby.” 

“Very good. Notice, too, the clarity of the wine – no clouds, and only a little sediment, from the unique maceration process. Yet it doesn’t trap light, like a Merlot or a Malbec, but rather allows the light to pass through. Those ruby facets you mentioned.” Valerius seemed to purr. Portia noticed he was leaning towards her; she could smell the wine on his breath, but also something warm on his skin, a cologne – peppercorn, a fruity, crushed floral, that probably cost more than three days of her wages. 

“Now – the swirl.” Slowly, slowly, he rotated his wrist, just enough that the wine swam up the lip of the glass and slid back down. “The swirl allows you to see the body – the thickness, the legs of the streaks. It also releases compounds that allow you to smell it better, but we’ll get there. What do you see now?” 

Portia felt her brows furrowing as she tried to rotate the glass, just as slowly, but it still came dangerously close to sloshing out. “Ah… it’s… rather thin. It’s a little like… ink. You’d expect it to be thicker, but it’s not.” 

“Mmmm. And the legs? Those are the streaks on the side of the glass.” 

“They’re… thin? There’s a couple of them?” 

Valerius nodded once, his eyes darting to her, before slipping back to the glass. “The streaks indicate alcohol content. Highnoon Rendezvous is a littler stronger than your average wine. But the stirring really gets you to the best part.” Without warning, he dipped forward, his entire nose going into the lip of the glass and sniffed. “Smelling. Don’t overthink it.” 

Flushing, a little, with embarrassment, Portia did just that – stuck her nose in the glass too, and breathed in deeply. At first, all she thought she smelled was the alcohol, burning faintly in the back of her throat. But then, then – everything bloomed in her, the fruity notes first, blueberries and blackberries and cherries, like summer; the florals, roses, violets, iris; then, something earthy, earthy and smoky, something that reminded Portia of a…

“Woodfire?” She asked incredulously, scrunching up her nose. “That can’t...” 

“It is.” Valerius said with a little smile. “You’ve a good nose. To me, it smells a little like wet clay, but wood smoke is common too. It can be different for everyone.” He raised his eyebrows now, with a playfulness Portia had never quite seen on him, not even when drunk. “ _Now_ you can taste it. Not a gulp, but don’t just wet your lips either. Then, hold it there. See how the flavor evolves.” 

She took a deep breath, and took the plunge – a sip, not a gulp, and held it there for a moment. There were those same cherry and blackberry notes, and then – something sharp, spicy, almost like the scent of Valerius’ cologne, like her memories of the driftwood fires that he would build on the beach… that they would sit by together in the summers with the other kids, her cuddled against his side, night swirling around the smoke as it drifted away into the stars. It was all so overwhelming that Portia almost forgot to swallow it. 

“Oh!” She stared at the glass of wine, her eyes wide. “I… I never thought...” 

“You’re a natural, Portia.” Portia startled, just a little, to see Rema shift, roll, her wide, dark eyes, blurred and sleepy, blinking up at her from the Consul’s lap; she leaned a little into his touch as he thumbed the smooth arch of her jaw. “You’ll steal my job if I’m not careful.” 

“I doubt that.” The low warmth of the Consul’s voice was unmistakable as he looked down at her, the corners of his mouth just turning, not escaping Portia. 

“How did you learn all this?” She asked quietly, taking another sip, small, turning the wine around on her tongue – the same flavors, the same scents, burst, flooded her senses, engulfing her in small but spectacular pleasure. 

Valerius’ chuckle was nothing more than a soft huff. “My mother taught me.” He turned the glass in his hand now, hardly a few mouthfuls left, watched the streaks paint the sides, shimmy down slowly. “Thought it was a useful skill for a member of the Aristocrata. One of the more enjoyable things she taught me, truly. Gods rest her soul.” 

Rema sighed softly. “Wasn’t she the one who told you women are like wine?” 

“She did.” To Portia’s surprise, the unfamiliar, playful spark in his eyes sputtered and died, cooling to the distance she knew so well. “Not just women. Anyone.” 

“See past the legs.” Rema giggled. 

“A person is worth more than the sum of their parts.” Valerius countered. “It just takes time to uncover it all. Time, effort, intention.” 

“Listen to you, Nero, so poetic.” Rema cooed, sitting up now. “Come on, it’s late, and I have to put these dregs away.” 

“Give it to the girl.” Portia’s eyes flew wide as Valerius stood from the pool’s lip and practically shoved the bottle into her hands. “Now that she can appreciate it.” 

Rema’s gaze caught Portia’s, and she winked. “As you wish, Consul.” She accepted his proffered hand, stood liquidly, stretching a little. “Less work for me.” 

“Wait… I can’t drink this alone…” Portia protested, eyes flying wide. With a wide sweep of his cool gaze, Valerius looked up at the Countess’s balcony. 

“For all her faults...” He began, then paused, before looking back at Portia. “The Countess knows how to appreciate good wine… good wine, and good company.” He smirked, just the tiniest bit, before his eyes slipped away from hers, hand falling on the small of Rema’s back. “Good night, Portia.” 

Portia sat there, flabbergasted, wineglass in hand, as she watched Rema and the Consul recede together into the dark sheath of night. Surely the Consul hadn’t been implying… 

Yet, Portia found herself in the palace, guided by her sure and silent feet, her bare toes cold on the polished tile. Up the grand, curved staircase, to the Countess’s wing, the fluted panels, adorned with vases of lavender and jasmine, until she was standing in front of those wide mahogany doors, the three goddesses smiling back at her, encouraging, encouraging. With a tremulous sigh, Portia cinched her robe a little tighter around her chest, hiked the open bottle of wine up securely in her arm, and knocked. 

For a moment, a long, torturous moment, there was only stagnant silence, stale air – Portia realized she was holding her breath, that the still-full wineglass was trembling in her hand. Then – a faint voice, as if from faraway, a thick, honeyed voice trapped like a message in a bottle. “Who knocks at this hour?” 

“I – it’s Portia, Milady. I saw your lights on.” 

“Oh! Um… come in, Portia dear.” The surprise was clear in the Countess’s faraway voice, but so was her...gratefulness? Happiness? Portia’s heart fluttered strangely, the heat spreading once again on the back of her neck, as she slid open the doors with a practiced movement, precise with only one free hand. 

The bedchamber was empty, to Portia’s surprise, though the evidence of a sleepless night was there. Bedsheets mussed, candles on the desk and by her favorite armchair burning low. “Milady?” She called uncertainly, just as the answer came. 

“The bath, Portia dear.” 

The flush surely had spread to her cheeks now, as she carefully slid open the door to Nadia’s private baths. She’d been in her so many times before, to help Nadia in and out of the baths, to help her dress, to help her brush and condition her hair, but those had been acts of utility. Tonight, Nadia was lounging in the recessed marble tub, candles lit all around her, her hair piled up haphazardly on her scalp, a thin novel with a title written in Prakran in hand. The water was hazy and fragrant, filled with swirling rose petals and lavender buds. Portia immediately recognized the scent of Nivenese bath salts. 

“Milady.” Portia breathed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to disturb your… your bath…” 

At this, Nadia laughed, just the corners of her mouth turning, as she placed a hair ribbon in the book to mark her page and laid it carefully, safely, on a dry towel. “You are not disturbing me, dear. What brings you to me at this hour?” Her eyes flashed, mischievous, as her gaze settled on Portia, and she sank a little deeper into the warm water. 

“Um...” Portia suddenly found herself at a loss for words, as she tried, and failed, to avert her eyes from the Countess, the glisten of almond and apricot oils from the bath salts on her skin. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was taking a walk through the gardens, and I… I ran into Consul Valerius… he gave me this…” She held out the bottle by the neck to the Countess, suddenly very aware of how ridiculous she must look, in her robe, her hair pulled up wild, with a full wineglass and an uncorked bottle of some of Vesuvia’s finest wine. 

Nadia’s brows raised as she leaned forward. “He _gave_ you a bottle of Highnoon Rendezvous?” She chuckled, a little. “You must have caught him in an extremely generous mood.” 

Portia couldn’t help but giggle. “He… I’d never seen him like that. Drunk. Happy and drunk.” 

Nadia sank a little further into her bath. “So you saw my lights on, and thought…?” 

Her cheeks burned now, probably making her bright red. “There’s no pleasure in drinking wine like this alone, Milady.” 

“Nadia will do, remember.” Nadia cooed, her eyes lidded. “And Highnoon is a little jammier than I prefer, but it is not nearly as cloying as Sonnet Lore. I’d be honored to drink it with you.” She pulled up her knees now in the bath. “Join me?” 

Portia’s eyes flew wide. “...In the bath?” 

Nadia grinned, indulgently. “Yes, silly. Sometimes they are all that helps me get back to sleep, but I often find they are like fine wine – better shared.” 

“Mila – Nadia...” Portia stammered. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t possibly...” 

Nadia sighed, softly. “If you do not wish to, Portia, I would never insist. But if it is decorum that stops you, please do away with it.” She smiled now – a genuine, if sad, smile. “You know that I do not remember much of my time as Countess before, but what I do remember – what I wish I did not remember – was the loneliness of it. I do not wish to repeat it. Starting with you.” She held out a hand now. “Please, Portia. Join me.” 

It was like she was moving in a dream, a beautiful dream. Portia carefully placed the bottle and the glass by the edge of the bath, straightened, and turned. She could feel Nadia’s eyes on her, boring into her back, as she fiddled with the sash. Her entire body felt like a sun, flushed and burning bright, the steam, the scents, the sultriness, the knowing… 

She let the robe drop around her feet and turned, quickly, sliding into the tub with little grace – the water sloshed over the edge onto the beautifully tiled floor, nearly upending the glass, the glass that she grabbed quickly, cheeks burning. 

Nadia couldn’t help but laugh, to reach over her for the bottle. “You are such a funny thing, Portia, dear. Cheers.” She tapped the lip of the bottle to Portia’s glass. “To us.” 

“To us.” Portia repeated, faintly, raising her glass to Nadia, who practically purred with satisfaction, taking a pull from the bottle as she settled further into the bathwaters. Portia could already feel the bath doing its work to her, the scents relaxing her, the luxurious oils sinking into her skin, the thickness of the water like the sea itself in its saltiness.

“I must admit.” She said, after a moment. “I am a little surprised you weren’t able to sleep. Babouche didn’t tire you out completely?” 

Portia sputtered a little on her wine. “Nadia! How did you – ”

“Oh, I have eyes and ears in the palace other than you, dear.” Nadia purred, taking another pull from the bottle. “Handsome men like him can be tiresome lovers, anyway. Very pretty to look at, certainly, but no technique.” 

Portia laughed, even as she found herself flushing, again, again. “He gets the job done, most nights.” 

Nadia hummed. “Lucky you.”

Portia found herself smiling, her unreadable, even smile. “I suppose so.” She mumbled, taking another slow, soft sip of wine, holding it in her mouth to keep her from saying anything more. 

Nadia raised her eyebrows. “Good technique. Did Rema teach you?” 

Portia shook her head as she swallowed. “The Consul. Just now, actually. Before he gave me the bottle.” 

“Oh my.” Nadia’s smile was wicked, wicked and sweet. “You certainly caught him in a generous mood then. Though… it is my impression that you have that effect on people.” 

“I’m not sure about that, m-Nadia.” Portia muttered, looking down at the foggy bathwaters, her free hand smoothing over her fuzzy thighs, her dimpled thighs. A mistake – she could see the lovely shape of Nadia’s legs, now folded under her to give Portia room; the graceful arches of her feet, her gold-painted toes; she could see the downy hair between her legs, the rose petals caught there, painted to the lovely dark, flushed skin –

Nadia hummed again, the sound syrupy and indulgent. “I’ve never heard anything but praise for you from any of the staff, dear. You seem to bring everyone good cheer with your sweetness. Even our dour Consul. You have a way with people.” 

“I’m nothing special, Milady.” Portia ripped her gaze away, and up to Nadia – her high cheekbones, glistening with the bath’s oils, her dark lips, parted with a wide, soft smile, with gentle laughter. Her eyes, sparkling with amusement. 

“I must disagree, my dear. I have watched you for some time now.” Nadia crooned, in her low, low voice, her voice that set alight a tiny, delicious fire in Portia’s belly, a fire that matched the warmth in Nadia’s gaze. “It is very rare that someone as young as you can balance your capability and your likability. You are quite the remarkable woman.” 

“It’s more remarkable to be a pretty, powerful magician, isn’t it?” Portia found herself saying without thinking, wrapping her arms around her knees, folded in front of her like armor. 

To her surprise, Nadia’s brows bowed. “Iris’s arrival did distress you.” She murmured, more to herself. “I had wondered what happened with the dessert.” 

“Slippery hands, like I said, Milady.” Portia mumbled, mortified. 

“No.” Portia jumped when knees pressed against her own, a slick hand smoothing past her cheek, lingering, as Nadia pushed a wild curl, frizzing up from her loose ponytail in the heat, behind her ear with her certain fingers. “I can tolerate a great many things, Portia, but lying is not one of them.” 

Portia trembled, and not from fear. “How… how can I compete with her?” She was shocked at the waver of her voice, at the way her throat constricted, her tears welling. “I can’t bear to be left behind again.” 

A coo, soft, empathetic, as Nadia leaned even closer, so close that Portia could now smell that oiled-wood smell, the smell that must have been Nadia, just Nadia, beneath the lotions, the perfumes, the bath salts and oils. “In Prakra, there is a saying.” She began, her gaze tender. “ _La tazhar alwardat alhamra' 'ay aihtimam bilawn albinfsj_. A red rose shows no concern for the color of a violet.” The tiniest smile now. “My mother used to tell it to us often. With seven sisters, you grow used to comparing. Why doesn’t my hair do that? Why aren’t my breasts that shape? Why do I have this moustache, and no one else? But my mother called us her garden. Each a flower, each different, all beautiful.” 

“Easy to say when you’re all Princesses.” Portia half-sputtered, half-chuckled, wiping an errant tear away.

“You are beautiful, Portia.” Nadia’s voice was that low, honeyed purr, reminding Portia of a contented, sleeping cat. “You are exquisitely beautiful; it is clear to anyone who lays eyes upon you. You have simply not heard it enough. Or from the right people.” 

“I’ve no one to tell it to me.” Portia blurted out, the tears streaming now. “I… I’m alone. I’ve been so alone.” 

Arms now, encircling her, water sloshing over the sides of the bath as Nadia pulled her close, a hand in her hair, the other across her shoulders. “Portia. My dear Portia.” She breathed. “I will tell you you are beautiful. I will not let you be alone.” 

The candles were sputtering, and the wine forgotten – the moon, only the tiniest sliver of gauze to light the night, seemed to shiver in the sky, in the steam of the bath. And yet Portia noticed none of this, none, not a detail, but also it all, all of it rushing to her suddenly, like the wood-smoke of that wine-memory, when Nadia pressed her lips to Portia’s, lips that tasted of Highnoon Rendezvous, skin slicked with apricot and almond oils, and threaded her fingers through Portia’s hair. It was in that half-not-light, in that perfect, wine-soft kiss, that Portia believed, finally believed, that she might actually be beautiful.


	7. Three of Pentacles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Lorde - Buzzcut Season**
> 
> _CW: Brief mentions of war_

When Portia awoke, she was stiff-backed, cramped, her feet stinging and her legs protesting from being curled up underneath her. She unfurled, stretched, as lavishly as she could in the small cabin of her carriage. It was certainly not the slumber she’d gotten the night before, she recalled with a dopey, hazy smile, pulling aside the curtains to check the time. The stillwater gray of predawn. 

Portia carefully unwrapped the cloth-wrapped package in the bundle beside her – her breakfast, a croissant stuffed with cheese, mustard and ham, an orange, a clay thermos of coffee, chilled and sweetened with maple – all packed lovingly by Hestion, with a tiny note tucked into the fabric (Portia did a doubletake, then smiled, widely) from Nadia: “Thank you, my most beautiful, capable Portia.” 

It had been only yesterday morning that Portia woke in Nadia’s bed, wrapped in her robe, snuggled against the breast of the Countess herself. She’d flushed, took a deep breath, remembering the night before, Nadia kissing her, and kissing her, and kissing her, until the bath had gone cold – they’d retreated, giggling, to the bed, to cuddle just like this, to bask in that fresh euphoria of discovering mutual attraction, the tentative bud just peeking its fragrant petals out of verdant, hopeful green, until they both fell asleep. 

Portia flushed even now remembering the rest of that morning, Nadia’s long hair draped across her face, those otherworldly wine-dark eyes sleepily blinking down at her, humming with happiness as she snuggled closer to her, begged her not to go. How had Portia been so oblivious to Nadia’s obvious affection for her? The gifts – the gowns, the carriage, hell, her cottage in the labyrinth; her familiarity, asking her to call her Nadia; her playful teasing, her gentle, if shy, warmth. It was only when Portia saw the light of dawn peek through the gauze curtains that she bolted out of bed, Nadia laughing at her sense of (misplaced?) propriety.

The day following was strange, indeed. The gossip spread like wildfire that Portia spent the night in the Countess’s bedchambers – she received no end of healthy ribbing, from Hestion and Rema in the kitchens (somehow not hungover, Portia would have to ask her for her secret someday), from the girls in the laundry who passed her Iris’s dress for the day, even Babouche, who caught her in one of her shortcuts, who smiled knowingly, ruffled her hair affectionately, saying nothing. Even the Consul, who Portia passed in the hallways on her way to Iris’s room, winked at her, though maybe it was his eye twitching at the ever-chattering chamberlain. 

But then, Iris’s reading. Portia could barely hide the hope that she knew lit up her features when Iris flipped the card, her eyes flying wide, the scales tipping, her warning to Nadia. And she barely hid her displeasure when Nadia asked her to summon Bludmila and Ludovico, to draw Iris from the library, the library where Portia had always felt closest to him, strangely, long before she’d even known it was his desk that she’d envied in the corner, the stained-glass sun breaking like sunrise over the chair, the drawers, the cluttered surface. 

Nadia, of course, noticed her unease, questioned her about it on the ride into the city, in Nadia’s carriage, mere hours after the game had been set. Poor Iris, Portia pointed out, sent into the city with nothing but her satchel at her back, the delicate clothes of the palace to protect her. Nadia’s brows furrowed when Portia explained, pointedly, that the doctor was well-known for hanging out in the worst parts of town – she was practically inviting Iris to be harassed, or mugged, or worse. When Nadia handed her the note, the emerald necklace, Portia understood that Nadia had already weighed this – she was even more touched when Nadia told her it was up to her to give Iris the necklace or not. 

And now, here Portia was, almost dawn, waiting to see if Iris would return, empty-handed or not. Word had already reached her that Iris had been spotted at the Rowdy Raven, just before the guard had descended – the guard that Nadia had not summoned, Portia knew – one of the captains himself had reported to Nadia in the carriage, completely unaware that she had no idea of what had transpired. It was then that Nadia had summoned Portia’s carriage, so that she may return to the palace and berate the Consul, the very same Consul who had brought the two of them together only the night before. 

There was much, much weighing on Portia’s heart as she stared out the window, watching the stars fade and twinkle away as the ruby-red sun gently rose over the city square. Why had Nadia chose her, of all people? Why had the Consul turned his back on the Countess? And where… where was he? Could Iris find him? And if Iris couldn’t find him, could anyone...? 

She was jolted from her thoughts by a sharp knock, and she scrambled to the cabin door – there was Iris, in peasant dress, an indigo shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her wild short hair – the indigo was the same color as her eyes, sparkling with the carmine light of the sunrise behind them. 

“Iris… just in time. Do you…?” Portia began, but the card was already in Iris’s hand, the gilded edges catching the sun like a match in the night. **Justice**. 

“Incredible.” Portia couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at the corners of her lips – how had she ever doubted her? Jealousy was a green-eyed monster, indeed. “Nadia was worried when you didn’t return last night, but I knew you’d come through. Now… what happened to your clothes?” 

Portia couldn’t blame Iris for the black chuckle, her rolling eyes as she lowered the shawl from around her ears. “You dressed me in white, then made me traipse across the entire realm looking for a single Tarot card.” She gestured now to her satchel. “They got a little dirty.” 

“This was an impulse of Milady’s, that’s for sure.” Portia muttered, gesturing for Iris to climb up into the cabin. “We certainly could have equipped you better. No matter now.” She watched as Iris climbed up, settled in. “I’ve brought a change of clothes for you.” 

“Why?” Iris wondered, eyebrow cocked uncertainly. “We’re going back to the palace.” 

Portia shook her head, letting a little mischievous smile peek through. “Nadia is announcing the masquerade here at peak hours today, which doesn’t give us enough time to go back to the palace and return. I thought you might like to check on your shop, since your mentor is also away. You can change there, and freshen up if you need to. Though...” Portia considered her next words carefully. “...you might have just come from there, no?” 

Portia was shocked at the way Iris’s eyes flew wide – for a moment, Portia thought the magician might cry, cry from relief. But she smiled, a bright, sweet, dimpled smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and Portia felt a rush of something, not unlike the blooming she felt when she looked at Nadia, but softer, safer, more sure. Affection. “I didn’t, actually… that would be lovely, Portia. Thank you.” 

Portia rapped surely on the ceiling of the cabin, and the carriage lurched forward, through the just-rousing market to the Indigo Child. “If you didn’t stay there...where were you?” She chanced, once again eyeing her simple clothing, the soft pants, the cropped shirt, the shawl. 

Iris bit her lip, and for a moment, she was silent, weighing, but Portia waited, patient. “I was searching for most of the day and ended up on the Southside. I have a friend who owns an inn there.” 

“The Rowdy Raven?” Portia responded, a brow raised with quiet knowing – she smiled when Iris tensed, understandable. 

“How did you know?” 

“I have my sources.” Portia wiggled her eyebrows, carefully signaling that Iris was in no danger. “We certainly wouldn’t have invited you to the palace without vetting you extensively first. There was quite a hubbub there yesterday, if I’m not mistaken.” 

Iris relaxed considerably, even as she eyed Portia a little warily, pressing her wild hair away from her tired eyes. “My friend told me. The guards had a warrant.” 

Lips pursed, Portia paused for a moment, letting her hands come to a steeple in her lap as the carriage jostled over uneven, time-groved cobblestones. “”Milady was not happy about that.” She murmured, finally, her brows furrowed. “The Consul got all the Courtiers to sign the warrant without asking for her signature.” Portia felt her heart twist in her chest, so tight it was almost painful to breath. “She’s worried it spooked the doctor; and from what I’ve heard, he’s pretty slippery.” 

Iris’s eyes widened, softened, and Portia’s heart surged again, surged with that same-strange feeling of warmth, of affection. “The Countess didn’t call for the search?” 

“Absolutely not.” Portia assured her, with a soft smile, a genuine smile. “In fact, the fair Consul got quite an earful when he returned last night.” 

It was then that the carriage jerked to a halt – Portia watched as Iris braced herself, grabbing the edges of the bench, to keep herself from tumbling forward into her lap, the little wince slicing across her features, dark brows furrowing – then her bright eyes alighting on the stoop of her shop, wide with relief. With a little smile, an indulgent smile, Portia let Iris dismount first, take in the sight of her shop – only two days gone, and she looked like she might cry at the sight of it – watched, with wonder, as she pressed her palm to the door and rainbow-white sigils flared to life, then dissipated like smoke into the morning’s fog. 

Iris pressed open the door with her shoulder, knelt to pick up something from the stoop, a delivery, Portia assumed, as she finally crossed the threshold to the shop that had captured her imagination for so long. It was like nothing she had imagined – pristinely clean, the glass-topped counter polished to a shine, shelf upon shelf of spellbooks, crystals, tumbled and rough-hewn, bottle after bottle of potions and salves and tonics, tiny drawers that Portia suspected held raw ingredients, protected from sun and heat and touch. 

With another resonant snap of Iris’s fingers, the hearth in the corner burst to life with warm orange flames. She swept past Portia, surreptitiously adjusting the embroidered runner that protected a worn wooden display case in the corner, covered in airtight containers of wildly varying sizes. “Portia, would you like a cup of tea?” Iris offered, just as a cast-iron kettle zoomed from behind the curtain to the back, hanging itself deftly, routinely, on the hook over the fire. 

Portia couldn’t help the wild laugh that bubbled up from her chest, musical, soft. “Sure. What do you have?” 

Iris’s smile was wide, wide and sparkling. “The better question is, what don’t we have? Please, feel free.” She gestured widely to the display case, and for the first time, Portia saw something in Iris that flushed through her, too – a sense of pride in her work, in her tiny, curated corner of her universe – this narrow shop, its cacophonous colors, the collection of trinkets on the highest shelf, bottles and totems and tapestries and scrolls. Portia sidled up to the decorated sideboard and opened one of the tins, full of massive blooms – peony, Portia quickly deduced, peony buffeted with gentle chamomile. She took a deep inhale, suddenly awash in the most relaxing, luxurious scent. 

“This may take me a moment.” 

“No worries.” Iris’s smile was wide, bright, as she threw the curtains open, letting the weak sunlight scatter through the picture window, setting the shop aglow with early morning magic. “The water needs to boil anyway. Here, let me go change while you choose.” 

Portia handed her the package, watched with no small amusement as Iris’s eyes went wide again as the pulled out the dress – Prakran gauze, a smoky brown threaded through with purple and gray, glittering quietly in the light. Then she was up the stairs on quick feet, and Portia was barely listening, lost in smelling each and every tea on that sideboard, more teas than even they had at the palace – was that possible? - dark and smokey blends from Prakra, florals teas from Nippon, Busan, the Seong provinces, every herbal and medicinal blend under the sun. 

She was finally settling on a juicy-smelling blend rosehips and dried strawberries when all the hairs stood up at the back of her neck, like a cold breeze had rippled through the room – but there was nothing, no windows open, no drafts, just the gentle heat of the hearth at Portia’s back. It was quiet – too quiet, no aching creak of the old floorboards above her as Iris moved, no rustling, no humming. Portia set the tea down on the counter silently and crept to the stairs, head bowed in careful concentration, listening, listening. 

Then – her heart leapt with relief – Iris’s voice, hardly more than a whispered hiss. Portia couldn’t make out the words, but she sounded angry, frustrated. There was a pause, painful, followed with a ragged sigh; Portia’s eyes flew wide. A man’s voice, rough, raspy, but careful, careful and tender. He wasn’t whispering, but murmuring in low tones, clear, lilting, the accents falling strangely – 

She was up the stairs, quick and silent as a cat, before she could even think, her hand falling on the doorjamb and lifting the curtain just enough for her to see. Iris’s back was to her, her arms crossed, head cocked, toe tapping on the floor impatiently. The silhouette of a man – the magician? Asra? – loomed over her by nearly a foot, but he practically cowered in front of her, his shoulders stooped, his face turned away, soot-dark in the halo of the low hearth behind them. 

“I have time.” Iris turned away from him and crossed the little flat in two short strides, sitting heavily, gracefully, on the arm of the dressing chair by the landing. “You can fuck me and draw me in my sleep but you can’t spend the night with me?” 

Portia’s mouth fell open with shock just as the man looked back to Iris, ears reddening, face still half-shadowed, sliced across with that strange sultry darkness, half illuminated in the wilding morning light, redder and oranger and golder with each passing moment. It was that light that caught the auburn of his hair, the warm, glowing gray of his eye. He was mumbling something, stammering, but Portia’s heart was hammering, hammering, as she ripped the curtain open, stumbled through the doorframe into the flat between the two of them. 

“Iris...” She heard herself say, flat and lifeless, a feeble excuse, she knew, even as she glanced, precursory, at the pretty magician. “Forgive me, I thought I heard voices...” 

Then her eyes shot back to him – if there had been any doubt before, doubt that this shadowy, long-limbed man, expression dark and brooding, rougish, was him, it was gone in that moment, the moment their eyes locked; a strange, electric surety shot through her as the corners of his mouth just turned, just as disbelieving as her, even as the color drained from his face. She couldn’t believe how small her voice sounded, how quiet, how shaky, her lip quivering, when his name finally, finally, bloomed from her, her heart to her mind to her lips, speaking him back to life. 

“Ilya?”

Portia heard Iris gasp, but it barely registered; she took one wobbly step forward, as if he would fade into the whitewashed walls like the ghost he was. Had he always looked like this, nothing like her memories? He was positively gaunt, deathly pale, and the skin of his eyelids was purpled and dark, like he hadn’t slept a full night in years. His beautiful hair was short – she couldn’t remember a time his hair had ever been short? – and wild, like he had cut it himself, hacked frantically away with a knife. And then… the eyepatch, stark like a bruise on his fair skin. Imagining what might be underneath it made her want to weep. 

Yet, when she laid her hands on his face, it was the same, the same as she remembered when he hugged her good-bye that last time, her fingers tracing his jaw, his cheekbones, his nose, their father’s nose, the father she couldn’t remember – " _Ilja, jesi li to stvarno ti?_ " 

A gloved hand came to rest on her forearm, hesitant, hesitant but tender. His one visible eye shined – that, that was just as she remembered, the warm gray of summer stormclouds. “It’s me, Pasha.”

And then – out it came, hot, wild, her watching the ship sail out from the cliffs, her growing into her strange teenaged body, Lilinka on her death bed, her watching the ships sail in, imagining him on them, the letter – _the letter_ – 

The slap stung her hand, stung the silence that had settled over the three of them – his eye flew wide with shock, one large, still-gloved hand covering the glowing welt on his cheek. “You stupid bastard!” She shouted, in a voice that hardly sounded like her own, a shout that shattered all her softness. “What were you thinking, coming back to the city? Are you trying to get yourself killed? The mess you’ve made...” She was sobbing now, her hands shaking, as she gripped the lapels of his shirt, and buried her face in it. He even _smelled_ different now, not what she remembered – why did she only remember the scent of the sea? – rum, and ink, and blood. “...it’ll be the end of you...” 

Hands: leather-warm, gentle. “You’ve grown up so strong, Pashinka.” His voice was so low, barely a murmur in her ear. “I… I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see it.” 

She heard shuffling, the curtain rings protesting, soft footfalls on the stairs; Iris had retreated, tactfully, and Portia felt yet another blush of affection for her, a natural, wild ease. His fingers were under her chin now, lifting her gaze to his. “How old are you now, Pasha? 22? 23? Y-… Your birthday is next month, isn’t it?” His eye was bright and warm, swimming over her face, still disbelieving now. “You’re a woman now… and… and you’re beautiful, you look like Lilinka, by the Gods...” 

“ _Ne, nemoj_ –” Portia twisted away from him now, her face contorted. “ _Ne možete reći njezino ime._ ”

He looked like he had been struck again. “Pasha… I’m sorry I wasn’t there. When she…” His voice trailed off, and for a moment, Portia caught a glimpse of the uncertain, trembling teenager she once knew. 

She felt her lip rising, teeth baring – she had never, never, felt so angry, not even in all those years she... “ _Što, Nevivonii nije dovoljno dobar za tebe?_ ” She hissed. “Fine. Vesuvian. I’m fluent now. It only took me two years. Did you know I came here looking for you, after I got your stupid letter? That I could barely write my own name, let alone speak this language? I worked in bars on the Southside, learned in bits and spurts from Maz, from the seadogs. Found some of your old friends, actors, bookies, barkeeps, pickpockets. They didn’t know what happened to you, only told me you disappeared, ensnared in the machinations of the palace.” 

“Pasha –” Julian’s expression was desolate as he held his hands out to her, but cowered like a child when she brandished a finger at him, scowling. 

“ _Ne, slušaj me_. So I went to the palace. I got a job there, as a chambermaid, caring for the Countess. And you know what I found about you there? Nothing. _Nothing_. No records of anyone who worked in the palace during the plague, and if there was – numbers. Doctor 081. Healer 036. Apprentice 042. I couldn’t ask anyone directly about you; I had to keep my head down, to avoid suspicion.” Her hands were shaking. “So I did just that. I worked. I listened. I assimilated. I waited. I could wait – I’d waited for you for _years_. I waited for you to come back when Lilinka died. I know Maz got our letters to you – she told me so when I stowed away on her ship to come here. You knew she was dead. You knew I was _alone_. But you never – you never came back – you promised you’d come back – ” 

She startled – his hands were on her shoulders now, gently rubbing the softness of her arms; she was sobbing, he was wide-eyed, horrified, and still she kept going. “I waited for you in the house by the sea, so you had someone, _someone_ , to come home to… and then I got your letter, but by the time I got here – by the time I got here, you were gone, like you’d vanished from the face of the earthside plane… so why…” Her vision was blurring, she was shaking, shaking. “Why did you come back… for _her_?” 

Hands on her cheeks, both of them, he was kneeling in front of her, his eyes, eye, welling. “ _...Što?_ ”

Her hands clenched at her sides into fists, she was shaking, shaking, tears rolling down her stormy face. “ _Zašto si se vratilil po nju, a ne ja?_ ” 

“ _Paša…moja dragocjena sestra..._ ” He was enveloping her in his arms, he was so strong, she could feel it in the way he squeezed her close, close and tight, like he would never let go again, no, no, she couldn’t, couldn’t let herself think that – her fists were on his shoulders, pummeling him, she was trying to push him back, but he was too big, too strong – 

“I didn’t come back for her.” He murmured into her ear, and she stilled, even as she sobbed. “I… I don’t know why I came back here. But I didn’t… I don’t remember… maybe she was part of it, but… I don’t remember her, Pasha.”

Portia felt stripped, stripped and limp, her mouth falling open. “You don’t… you don’t remember either?”

Julian’s eye widened as he straightened, looked at her, for a moment, his brows furrowing. “Who… who else doesn’t remember? Iris?”

“No… well, yes, she doesn’t – Nadia.” Portia stammered. “She… barely remembers anything from before. Before… coming here. To Vesuvia.”

Julian blinked. “Her, too?” One gloved hand flew to his mouth, his gaze darting away, to the far distance. “None of us… what happened in that palace…?”

“Why did you come back?” Portia whispered frantically, drawing him back to her. “If not for Iris? And why… why didn’t you…” Her face crumpled again – she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Julian shook his head slowly, his grip tightening around her. “I thought of you every day. Every day, Pasha. I never forgot you. I…” His lip trembled, and the darkness seeped through her, like lead in her blood – everything behind his eyes, everything that separated them, time, distance, experience, memory. “I studied medicine on battlefields, Portia. It was horrifying. I learned so much. But I… but I could never come home again. Not like that. I couldn’t do that to you, to Lilinka.” 

“But...”

“ _Slušaj me._ ” He muttered, fiercely, and Portia’s eyes flew open in shock. “You’ve always been stronger than me. Even when you were a child, Pasha. You were good when I couldn’t be.” He shook his head now. “I wanted to study to be a doctor. So I could be good. So I… so I could do what Mama couldn’t. So I could make her proud.” 

Portia froze as the tears fell in earnest now – this wasn’t how she imagined this scene, since she was ten, she’d thought – she’d never thought she would wrap her arms around his head, trembling, trembling, as he wept. “I’m not good, Pasha. I’ve done so much I’m not proud of. But the worst...” He sniffed. “The worst thing I ever did was leave you behind. I thought of you every day – I thought of the person you’d become, the good person, without me there to drag you down. I couldn’t bring you into my mess, Pasha. Please know that I never forgot about you.” 

“I don’t need you to be good, Ilya.” Portia whispered. “I just need my brother at my side. You’re all I have left. You and Maz.” 

To her surprise, Julian laughed, softly, hardly a breath against her neck. “There. Look at how good you are, _dragocjena_.” He pulled back, gaze drifting over her, warm smile lighting up his sharp features. “You’re even better than I imagined you. Fierce and beautiful. And good.” 

Portia sniffed, and giggled. “And you’re far skinnier than I imagined. _Jeste li još uvijek izbirljivi jedec _?”__

__

__

Julian’s laugh this time was louder, more genuine. “Hard to get three squares a day when you’re on the run, Pashinka. Even harder to be picky about them.” 

Portia grinned. “Well, Maz and I will fix that. You’ll never miss a meal again, if she can help it.” 

Julian’s face fell, and he averted his gaze, pointed shamefully towards the floor. A pit, and impossible pit, a black hole, swirled through Portia’s gut. “You’re not staying.” 

“Pasha.” He still wasn’t looking at her. “I’m a wanted criminal. If they find you’re harboring me… if they find you’re related to me… I can’t protect you.” 

“ _Besmislica._ ” Portia’s voice was rising again, meeting the heaviness in her gut, the angry fire in her chest. “I just found you. You’re going to leave again?” 

“No – no!” Julian’s eyes snapped to her. “I’m – I’m not leaving – but Pasha… I can’t drag you into this, too… I could hang, don’t you understand? You’re better off… better off just forgetting…”

Portia wrenched her hands away from him, flinging them up over her head in frustration. “ _Idiot. Idiot šupak._ Don’t you see? You don’t – you don’t get to make that choice! No matter what, we’re family. No matter what, I can’t just forget…” A wave, an overwhelming wave of emotions washed over her, sweeping her unsteady, tears running down her cheeks. “I… I need air, I can’t – ”

“Pasha!” Julian called, but she was already gone, through the curtain, thundering down the stairs, rushing for the back door – the cold January air rushed into her lungs, bright, bright and stinging. On the little backdoor patio, she stumbled, tumbling forward onto her knees, unfeeling brick scraping at the soft fabric of her pants. 

She winced, then punched frustratedly at her knees, her thighs, biting back the ferocious tears that threatened at the corners of her eyes, then made good on their promises, nipping her cheeks in the chill. Of course, of course he couldn’t understand, idiot, moron, _jebeni kretenu_ , how dare he, how dare he come back here like this and… and… 

Portia’s fists on her knees softened, softened to outstretched palms – she watched, almost as if outside herself, as the tears fall into her palms, settling into the creases of her hands, bead on her callouses. A poison, a sickness, this was – this anger inside of her, jealousy, frustration, hopelessness, washing over her like sudden tide, up to her waist, threatening to rip her under, to drown her in its airless, endless void…

The morning light burst over the patio, the sun rising high enough now to break across the baked-brick rooftops, still the same wild gold-red. It scattered the light through the meshed muslin that covered the plants on the back sill, casting Portia mostly in shadow – but through one of those shadows, a strange red-orange, almost the glow of glass. 

In front of her, a plant in a massive terracotta pot, but the muslin was old, ripped, spotted with holes, like dark little eyes. One of the eyes that winked back at her was red, garnet-dark petals limned with the gilded morning light, strengthening, strengthening, with each passing moment. The petals scattered the light like a jewel across the tiny porch, and Portia couldn’t help herself from crawling forward, gently lifting the muslin. 

It was a shock of sweet pea, mostly buds, the same garnet, but one bloom was already unfurling, pupil turned towards Portia, as if waiting for her to look back. Sweet pea, planted in late autumn, nurtured through the winter. Hardy plants, able to withstand cold snaps and most pests, if sometimes fussy to grow. She could hear Lilinka’s voice in her ear – _growing sweet pea is like making pie crust. Some have the touch, some don’t. Some know what it’s like to weather a frost, and some don’t._

With a sigh, with a soft, shuddering sigh, Portia stood, brushing the dust from her pants, her apron. She gave the sweet pea a long, lingering sniff – the gentle scent of honey, honey and orange and jasmine – and then she covered it again with the muslin, protecting it from at least some of the frost that bit in the worst of the January nights.

She opened the back door as quietly as she could, slipping inside with hardly a sound. She heard voices – Julian’s voice, low, soft, quiet, and Iris’s, musical and sweet, almost laughing. Portia allowed herself to peer around the corner, through the curtain that separated the shop from the reading room and the back porch – there they were, standing in front of the fire, cups of coffee in hand, both blushing like babes. She watched as Iris reached out for him, fingers brushing against his jaw before cupping his cheek – more murmuring, this time from Julian, before he leaned into her touch, kissed her palm, covered her hand in his. 

One more kiss, Iris leaning in to press her lips, lingering, to his cheek – and then he was wrapping his cloak around his shoulders, grabbing her arms, kissing her with the hunger of a man starved. Portia couldn’t hear what he said to her, what set her cheeks and neck afire, her eyes alight, but before she could step through the curtain, call his name, he was gone again, like smoke in the night. 

Iris turned to her, flustered, blushing, and Portia couldn’t help but straighten, smile slightly, even as she blanched a little. “Oh, Iris, you’re dressed. You look lovely as always. Here...” She crossed the little room, picking up her satchel from the glass-topped counter, licking her thumb as she attempted to smooth out Iris’s cowlicked bangs, then tousling them casually, carefully. “Short hair is tricky, isn’t it? Long hair you can just pull up. I see you found the slippers.” Her eyes went wide as she stared down at Iris’s feet, clad in slippers, embroidered by Minerva herself. “Oh!” 

Her hand flew to her bag, closed around an envelope, an envelope and a soft velvet bag. She hesitated, only a moment, her heart pounding, that bilious tide rising again – but then she thought of Iris tending to that sweet pea bloom, protecting it from the winter’s cold, that sweet pea bloom that was poisonous, with no special medicinal properties, nothing more than a hardy flower that grew even when the cold settled into her roots, nothing to offer but a sweet scent, a vibrant color, the little joy of helping something blossom from a bud. 

Out they came, the note in its dainty envelope, the moss-green jewelry bag. She placed the bag in Iris’s cupped hand, her brows furrowed, flitting to Portia’s. She nodded, just once, encouraging, letting her expression soften. 

“Go ahead, open it.” 

Iris carefully unthreaded the drawstring with delicate, shaking fingers, upturning the bag into her palm – out tumbled the heart-shaped emerald, the very same one that Portia had handed to Nadia just two nights ago. She understood now, now as Iris’s eyes widened, as a tiny sizzle of power fizzled across her skin, as Iris took a deep, deep breath – there were some things that were never meant to be hers, the same that there were things that were never meant to be Iris’s. The Universe had its way of sorting things out, even when paths intertwined, strangely, sweetly, easily. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? And it really complements your tones.” The praise felt natural, easy, true, as Portia took the necklace from Iris’s hand, drifting behind her. “Milady has an impeccable eye for these things. Go on – read it.” 

She fastened the emerald around Iris’s neck as she read, her large eyes darting over the note, only to quickly stow it in her pocket, her hands still shaking. “I’m not sure how I finished the task with aplomb, but…thank you, Portia.” She murmured, another soft flush painting her cheeks. 

“Well...” Portia began, then took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I figured if you could find Ilya and the card, you must be a pretty skilled magician, no?” Her gaze locked with Iris’s, her dark eyes wide, wide but hopeful – in that moment, what passed through them, Portia knew. They were intertwined, for the rest of their time earthside, sisters in their strange suffering, sharing their loveliest, softest secrets. 

Iris smiled, and Portia nodded, once, glancing out the window, the morning light earnest now, melon-yellow, sweet. The susurrus of the morning market wafted up to them, with the scent of the baker’s most recent batch of pumpkin bread. “We should probably go.” Portia’s voice was soft, soft and knowing. “I imagine Milady will want to make the announcement soon.” 

Iris returned her smile, the light of it reaching her eyes, her eyes the same color as the sea at night. “Let’s go.” She cooed, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and Portia wrapped hers around her hips. Together, they stepped out into the morning, the triplet click of the locks to the shop behind them, Iris’s hand falling on Portia’s shoulder, knowing, and seeing, and quiet as sunrise light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: Thank you, as always, for reading, my doves. <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [motherofqups](https://motherofqups.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come yell at me, or show me pictures of your cat. 
> 
> If you dig any of this, please check out [The Iris Oracle.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491047)


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